Chaos is a Ladder
by when-is-winter-coming
Summary: "Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. And some are given the chance to climb. They refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is."
1. King of the Ashes

**Prologue  
** **King of the Ashes**

* * *

 **President Augustus Hale**

 _Mr. President, you are live in ten._

They'll call me a tyrant. And maybe I am. But, right now, a tyrant is what they need. The three-year war that tore our great nation apart was due, in equal parts, to the districts' unrest and our own complacency. We can't afford to hand-hold the districts back into submission. They need someone strong to put them in their place. They need someone to remind them just how helpless they would be without us.

 _Nine._

They'll call me a murderer. And maybe that's fair. But I'm no more a murderer than they are. They initiated this conflict, and now, I must use whatever means are available to me to ensure that it never happens again. What I'm about to do is horrible, unfair, monstrous, but it is no worse that what would happen if I stayed my hand. Another rebellion, if it ever came to that, would mean more bloodshed than a thousand of the Games we're planning to enact. More than ten thousand.

 _Eight._

They'll say they have suffered enough. And maybe that's true. But, although they remember the rebellion, and its price, clearly, their children may not. And their grandchildren certainly won't. They will need to be reminded. They will need these Games – _my_ Hunger Games – as a constant reminder of the price of defiance.

 _Seven._

Yes, they need me, these squalling masses that whisper my name in disgust and defiance. Let them whisper. Words are wind. They can be dangerous, to be sure, but not without actions to support them. As long as their dissent remains merely words, Panem has nothing to fear. As long as their threats are empty, we will have peace.

 _Six._

Yes, we will have peace. But this time it will be a vigilant peace, not the complacency that my predecessors fell into. We cannot afford to become comfortable, assured of our own safety. We cannot afford to sit back and watch our great nation slumber as it did three years ago. We must be watchful. We must be alert.

 _Five._

Yes, we must be alert for any sign. Any hint of rebellion. And that is the second purpose of the Games. If there are still factions that might pose a threat, what would bring them out of hiding faster than the slaughter of their own children? If anything will bring these rebels crawling to the surface, it will be these Games. And by their own concern, their own objection to the bloodshed that will ensue, we will weed them out.

 _Four._

For a while, it may be difficult, but we will find them. There is nowhere left for them to hide. District Thirteen has been completely destroyed. Stragglers from the battles who fled to the wilderness between the districts have been captured and either killed or returned to their home districts. For a while, there will be a struggle. There will be conflict as we work to rebuild our great nation.

 _Three._

For a while, there will be chaos. But chaos is their enemy, not ours. Just as peace is. One would think that chaos and peace are incompatible, but the fact is that the opposite is true. Chaos and _silence_ are incompatible. But silence is not peace. In order to have _true_ peace, there must be an element of chaos, of constant change. Silence, inaction, complacency – these are the _true_ enemy.

 _Two._

For a while, they will see _us_ as the enemy. They will see the Capitol only as a source of oppression and cruelty. And so we must be seen, for a while, in order to keep the peace. But, eventually, they will realize the truth. Their greatest enemy is each other. Their greatest threat comes not from us, but from within. We are simply an instrument of a greater force, fighting to return things to the way they should be.

 _One._

No, not return. That's wrong. Things can never, and _should_ never, return to exactly the way they were. We must keep moving forward. We must keep making progress towards our inevitable goal: the glory and prosperity of Panem. We will not return to what we were. We will be better. We will be greater.

And the districts, too, will be greater, better because of the trials they will be forced to endure. The lone Victor who rises from the ashes of this year's Games will be an honour to their district. A source of pride and glory and resolve in the face of terrible odds. This year's Victor, and those who will follow, will serve as symbols of our mercy, our compassion. They will help us to lead our nation forward, and, together … we will have peace.

 _Zero._

* * *

 **Hello, everyone. As you've probably guessed by now, this is an SYOT of the First Hunger Games! This is a collaboration between myself and a few friends, but, since I'll be doing the majority of the writing, it's going up on my profile. (The others are helping out more with the planning/plotting/decision-making/proofreading aspects, for which I am deeply grateful.)**

 **So, the tribute form and a few rules (nothing outrageous or scary) are up on my profile. Happy submitting, and tell your friends!**


	2. The Opinion of Sheep

**The Opinion of Sheep**

* * *

 **Head Gamemaker Minerva Hale**

" _In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of twelve and eighteen at a public reaping. These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol and then transferred into an arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games."_

It all sounds so formal, when he says it. So militaristic. Which makes sense, I suppose. Three years of warfare will do that to even the best of men, and Augustus is certainly among the best men I've ever had the pleasure to know. Maybe not _the_ best, but certainly the most suitable, and the most available when I was of age to marry.

Not to say that our marriage hasn't been a good one. Twenty-six years, three children, and a twelve-year presidency speak for themselves. We're good for each other, and we have both, I hope, been good for Panem. The fact remains, however, that Augustus can come across as a bit … well, stiff.

I suppose that's why he's the President, while I'm the Head Gamemaker, and our daughter Noelle is going to host the whole affair. Maybe it's best if we each stick to what we're best at - to our own arena, if you will.

Augustus and I went back and forth over the wording of that. He wanted to call it a _field_ , to suggest a battle about to take place. That sounded a bit too open, though, too uncontrolled. An arena reminds them that we're the ones in control, but also suggests that it's a game. And not just a game, but a _pageant_. He wanted to call it a contest, a competition. He certainly didn't want to call it a game, at first.

But I finally managed to convince him that the people, both in the districts and in the Capitol, need to _see_ it as a game. Otherwise, we're simply tearing children from their homes and killing them. If we dress it up, though, make it fun, then maybe that'll make it a bit easier to swallow. Maybe they'll even grow to like it.

Certainly the people in the Capitol will enjoy it. We could all use a bit of fun after the toll the last three years have taken on all of us. If we simply killed the children, though, people might feel a bit guilty for enjoying it all. Treating it as a game is good for everyone.

Everyone except the participants, of course. The tributes, as we chose to call them. There was never much disagreement about that. Calling them tributes suggests, however incorrectly, that the districts are freely offering up their own children in return for the wrongs they've done.

Of course, they aren't. Not yet, at least. But if it looks that way, then, eventually, people might accept it as reality. If they pretend long enough, then maybe the sentiment will take hold.

Or maybe not. In the end, maybe it doesn't matter what they think, whether they enjoy it or not. It's the way things are, and the way things are going to be from now on. If they want to fuss and complain about it, then that's their problem. _Some_ of us are going to have fun.

* * *

 **Hi there. Logan here this time. A big thank you to everyone who's submitted so far. We still need a few more tributes, so keep on submitting.**

 **Just wanted to let everyone know that we're going to shorten the deadline a little and close up submissions after February 21st ... Partly because we already have 2/3 of the numbers we need and partly because we want to get going on this as quickly as possible because ... well, because this is fun. If you need a little more time to finish up a tribute or two, feel free to let us know, and we can give you a bit of an extension, but we'd like to get a list going asap.**

 **Also, we're working on a blog that will, when it's done, include the tributes, the escorts (who are doubling as the mentors), and a few extras like the president, gamemaker, and hostess. So we have a little poll going on Winter's profile so you can let us know what sort of information about the tributes you'd like to see on the blog. This is our first time doing this, and, while we've had a look at what some other people are doing, we'd like to know what you prefer. So ... let us know.**


	3. First We'll Live

**First We'll Live**

* * *

 **Noelle Hale  
** **Hunger Games Hostess**

Most people wouldn't realize the amount of planning that's gone into all of this. No one's ever attempted anything quite like this so far. Father wanted to simply throw the tributes into a small stadium with an assortment of weapons, have the Games over and done with in a matter of hours. Mother wanted a celebration that went on for weeks before the tributes even entered the arena.

What we settled on was a compromise, like everything else. A short procession into the Capitol, complete with costumes and festivities – just like Mother wanted. Three days for training – just like Father wanted. Three days to let the tributes come to terms with their circumstances, to hone their skills, to develop their strategies. Three days in which they can interact and maneuver with each other, each trying to gain an advantage over the others before they even reach the arena.

Then a demonstration, a chance for the tributes to show what they've learned, how much progress they've made. Maybe that's more for their benefit than four ours, in the end. We'll be watching them the entire time, after all. But they'll need something to give them an idea of where they fall, how they match up against each other, what we expect of them.

And then an interview. A chance for each of them to share some final thoughts before going into the arena. A chance to say goodbye to loved ones, to wish them well, to let them know that it's going to be okay.

But it won't be okay. Not for most of them, at least. Most of them are going to die. And so they get to have that one last chance. One last hour or two of humanity before the killing starts.

And that's my job. To give them that humanity. To show the audience, the Capitol, the districts that these aren't just players in a game. These aren't just tributes. These are real, live, breathing people with hopes and dreams and families and friends.

Father was hesitant to give me that chance. It's easier if we pretend they're soldiers. It's easier if we ignore their humanity. But something like this … it should never be easy. It needs to hurt. It needs to break our hearts and tear at our souls. Because if it becomes easy, then we forget. We forget why we must never let this happen again. We forget the price of what we have done, of what we let the rebels do. And that must never happen.

* * *

 **Hello again! We're back, this time with a tribute list. We did end up getting a few more tributes than we needed, so we had to make some cuts, particularly on the older end of the tribute range. No one wants an arena full of 18-year-olds. (If we'd wanted that, we would have done a Quell where everyone was 18.) But we were able to accept at least one tribute from everyone who submitted. So here's the list.**

 **District One:  
** _Clarisse Richardson_  
 _Maverick Sterling_

 **District Two:**  
 _Gardenia Carys_  
 _Vance Feldspar_

 **District Three:**  
 _Carina Ellison_  
 _Lincoln Tantalum_

 **District Four:**  
 _Bliss Loverly_  
 _Memphis Ash_

 **District Five:**  
 _Crescent Nerine_  
 _Icho Thesik_

 **District Six:  
** _Sylvana Paean_  
 _Horario Garcia_

 **District Seven:**  
 _Saturn "Silver" Grayne_  
 _Simon Galley_

 **District Eight:**  
 _Neblina Acosta_  
 _Kennedy Ford_

 **District Nine:**  
 _Sienna Poplar_  
 _Peter Eldamar_

 **District Ten:  
** _Aubrey Ryans_  
 _Colton "Colt" Hawkins_

 **District Eleven:**  
 _Felicity DeBrier_  
 _Aldous Clement_

 **District Twelve:  
** _Tullia Litvina_  
 _Elijah Maleri_

 **Now, what we need from you...**

 **1) If there are any changes you want to make based on the district your tribute ended up in, let us know. If your tribute didn't end up in your preferred district, we apologize, but we had a few extras in some districts, and not enough in others, so we had to move a few people around in order to make everyone fit.**

 **2) A quote for the blog. It doesn't have to be lengthy, just something short that your tribute might say that sort of sums up their personality. If you're not sure what sort of stuff we're looking for, head over to chaosisaladderhg . blogspot . com and have a look at the "Capitol" and "Escort" pages for examples of quotes.**

 **2a) Do not give us a quote from a book/movie/celebrity, etc. We're looking for something your _tribute_ would say, not a famous quote they try to live their lives by. Don't try to slip stuff by us, either. Between the three of us, one of us will recognize what you're quoting, and we're masters at copying and pasting things into Google and doing a search. Just don't try. Be original.**

 **3) Sit back and enjoy. The first reapings should be up soon, and we'll have the tributes up on the blog once we've got everyone's quotes.**


	4. Worth More than a Song

**So, between the three of us and our beta reader, we accidentally somehow deleted the story. It's back up now, and we apologize for any inconvenience.**

* * *

 **Worth More than a Song**

" _The singers make much of kings who die valiantly in battle, but your life is worth more than a song."_

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

The crowd is even larger than I imagined it would be, the other children pressing in around me as we're herded towards the square. I'd almost forgotten there were this many people in the district. Ever since the rebellion began, it's rare to see people gathering in the streets. Rebels are afraid of being caught, and loyalists don't want to be mistaken for rebels. It's hard to know who is who anymore.

My parents were loyalists, of course – through and through. Not that it did them much good once the war began, once the bombings and the raids and the riots started. We were separated early on, like so many families. But I never managed to find them at any of the centers set up to help us locate lost loved ones. By now, that means they're almost certainly dead.

Not that I'm the only one, of course. There are so many of us roaming the streets now, without a home, without anywhere to go or anyone to look after us. Begging, sifting through the garbage, fighting each other for scraps like stray dogs. Even stealing every now and then, despite the risk of a whipping if the Peacekeepers catch us.

Not that the thought of a whipping scares me. I've had worse. During the war, I accidentally wandered down the wrong alleyway searching for food, and stumbled across a hidden mine. I wasn't close enough to the blast for it to kill me, but it hurt like hell, and my hearing hasn't been the same ever since.

No, it's not the thought of the pain that scares me. Or even the scars. A few scars on my back to match the ones the shrapnel left on my face – that wouldn't be the worst of it. But if the Peacekeepers caught me stealing, if the rest of the district was watching as they beat me … I don't know, it almost feels like I'd be letting my parents down. And maybe that's stupid. Maybe they wouldn't want me to steal, but they also wouldn't want me to starve to death. Still, I'm always extra careful around the Peacekeepers.

Most of the time, though, they don't notice me. I stay out of their way, and they ignore the boys and girls roaming the streets. We're not the ones they're really after. We're not the problem. We didn't start this war.

"Hello, District One! Welcome to the reaping for the very first annual Hunger Games! I'm your district escort, Gloria Vincent!" A woman in a rainbow-striped dress, with rainbow-colored hair to match, stands beside a microphone onstage. On either side of her sits a bowl with slips of paper in them. Each slip of paper has a name written on it.

Two of them have my name. That's what they said, when the president made his announcement. One slip for twelve-year-olds, two for thirteen-year-olds, and so on. Two slips of paper out of thousands. She probably won't pick me.

But part of me wishes she would. Anything would be better than this. Living on the streets day after day like an animal, eating garbage, fighting the other children for scraps. Maybe she _will_ pick me. I probably wouldn't win, but if I did…

"Delina Saphrine!" Gloria calls out, her voice sickeningly sweet and bubbly.

The fourteen-year-old section stirs, but then there's a shout. "Oh, no, you don't! I volunteer!" A girl rushes to the stage from the section of sixteen-year-olds. "I volunteer," she repeats. "She's not going into the Games. I am."

Murmurs fill the crowd. Can she do that? Are people allowed to volunteer? Suddenly, my mind is racing. If she can volunteer…

"I … I don't know if that's allowed," Gloria stammers, trying to recover her wits.

The Peacekeepers have already collected the other girl, Delina, and ushered her to the stage. Delina stares up at Gloria, shaking, as the other girl places her hands on her hips. "Well, you'd better figure out if it's allowed – and quickly."

Gloria shakes her head, eyeing the pair of them. "Of course. How silly of me. Of course it's allowed." Whether that's actually a rule, or whether she would rather play escort to a sixteen-year-old with an attitude than a quivering fourteen-year-old, I'm not sure, but, either way, the decision has been made. Volunteers are allowed.

The Peacekeepers shrug and lead Delina back to her section as Gloria turns to the other girl. "And what's your name, sweetheart?"

"Clarisse Richardson." Without another word, she turns back towards the crowd, her arms crossed firmly across her chest, her dark, wavy hair flapping back and forth in the wind. My mother used to have hair like that. I remember that – most of the time. I have to remember that.

Gloria shrugs and turns her attention to the second bowl. I can feel my heart racing as she draws a name. This is it. This is my chance at a better life. I have to take it. I have to…

"Justin Reynolds!" Gloria announces, but, even as she does, I start running towards the stage.

"Wait, I'm going! I want to! I – I volunteer!" I shout, even as a boy from the seventeen-year-old section takes a step forward. Gloria looks even more confused now, but she's trapped. She said volunteers were allowed, and if it applies to the girls, it has to apply to the boys. Even a small, skinny boy. Even a boy who's half-deaf and has a bad hand. Even me.

"All right, then." Her tone is definitely more reluctant now, but, at the very least, the two of us have caught her interest. "What's your name, young man?"

I hesitate. It's been so long since anyone even said my name. Years since anyone ever bothered to ask. My parents and grandmother used to call me May. Such a sunny, cheerful nickname. But that boy is gone. He died along with them.

"Maverick," I answer, using my full name for the first time in a long time. "It's Maverick – my name. I'm Maverick Sterling."

Gloria smiles a little. "Well, District One, it looks like we're in for quite a show! Let's hear it for Clarisse and Maverick!" She holds up her hands, waiting for applause.

And, to my surprise, the crowd responds. Slowly, at first – one at a time – but, slowly, growing to an applause even I can hear clearly. Soon, they're not just clapping. They're cheering. For us. For _me_.

Maybe it's because, between the two of us, we saved two other children's lives. Maybe they're proud of us for being willing to represent District One in the Games. Maybe they want to show the Capitol that we're willing to abide by their terms – and not just willing, but eager to do what we can to keep the peace.

Whatever the reason, for a moment, we're heroes. _I'm_ a hero. Slowly, I feel a smile creep over my face. I stopped believing in heroes a long time ago. But now I have a chance to _be_ one, to be the very thing I thought people were silly for believing in. My smile grows as I turn to Clarisse, holding out my good hand.

She hesitates a moment before shaking it, eyeing me suspiciously. But that doesn't matter. I'm used to the stares. The way she shrinks away a little at my touch. For a moment, none of that matters. The only thing that matters is that I have a chance. I finally have a chance.

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

I have to admit, that wasn't quite how I was expecting things to go. Oh, I meant to volunteer, of course. And I was hoping to get some sort of reaction from the district. But not applause. Not cheers. Not this.

Maverick and I are led to a small room in the justice building. Almost immediately, my mother rushes in, followed by my older brother Zach. "What were you thinking? Don't you realize what you just did?" I take a step back. I haven't heard my mother shout that way in years. Doesn't she get it?

Of course I realize what I did. That's the point. What's she so upset about, anyway? I told her I was planning to do this. Did she think I wouldn't have the guts to go through with it? I can feel my face flushing as I take a step towards her. "I know what I just did! I'm not afraid of them! _We_ don't have to be afraid of them! I can show them—"

"—How? By dying? What good as that going to do?"

"You don't think I can do this!"

"Of course I do, but … Clarisse, I already lost your father. Please – _please_ , don't make me lose you, too."

"You won't. I'm coming back." The words sound strange in my mouth. This isn't how things usually work. She's usually the one telling me to calm down. But I guess these aren't exactly normal circumstances. Still, a little encouragement would be nice. How long before she realizes I'm not a child anymore? How long before she realizes I know what I'm doing?

I know _exactly_ what I'm doing. The Capitol thinks we're afraid of them. And maybe most people are. But if people like me can stand up and volunteer, show them we're not afraid – maybe even win their stupid Games – then we have a chance. A chance at something better.

"Just promise me you won't do anything…" She trails off, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Anything reckless? Rebellious? Anything my father would do?

But it wasn't recklessness that killed him. It was the Capitol. They never even sent his body back. It was burned to ashes in a mass grave by Capitol soldiers who didn't want to give the rebels any dignity – even in death.

Fortunately, Zach steps in. "She'll be fine, mother. Hell, I might even have done the same thing, if she hadn't beat me to it." He smirks. "Maybe next year."

My mother shakes her head, blinking away tears. Maybe she doesn't even want to think about next year – not until I'm safely home. Still, she brushes away the tears and gives me a hug as the Peacekeepers come to fetch her the two of them.

Zach claps me on the back. "You'll do fine, Clarisse. She's worried for nothing." He smiles as the Peacekeepers lead him away. "Make us proud, sis." But, hidden behind his words, I hear something else. _Make father proud._

Once they're gone, I roll my eyes. "Family."

The other boy makes some sort of noise that may be a murmur of agreement. It's hard to tell. It would probably be easier to just ignore him, but the silence grows a bit more awkward with each moment that passes. Is anyone else even coming? I've never been much of one for small talk, but it's better than awkwardness. "So … do you have anyone coming?"

He shakes his head, his badly-cut hair flopping all over his scarred face. "Dead. Lost – I don't know. Maybe coming, if they're still … no. No one coming."

Great. Just great. I could've had an older boy for company, but, instead, I'm stuck with this little kid who can't even form a complete sentence. What's he doing here in the first place? Why would someone like him want to volunteer for a fight he obviously can't win?

"Why?" he asks out of nowhere, maybe wondering the same thing about me. Why would _I_ volunteer? Why would I choose to leave a family who cares for me, when only one tribute out of twenty-four will be coming back? Maybe my family isn't rich, but we don't exactly need the money, the fame, the fortune. When he puts it like that…

Except he _didn't_ put it like that. He didn't say anything. Well, not much, certainly. And, even if he did, I certainly don't have to justify myself to him. So I simply cross my arms and shrug. "Because I can. What about you?"

His eyebrows shoot up, as if it's the first time anyone's asked him a question like that. "I … need to? Want to? Want to. This is what I meant to – what I mean to … I can do better."

 _I certainly hope so._ But I don't say it. For all I know, this kid has been through worse than I have. He certainly didn't get those scars playing ball in the streets. For all I know, the reason no one's come to say goodbye to him is because his family died in the war.

But on which side? When the rebellion first broke out, District One tried to stay neutral. As it began to look like the rebels might have a chance, more and more people joined the rebels' side, but the district was still split in half. Half supporting the rebels, half supporting the Capitol. Which half was he part of? Should I ask?

Maybe it doesn't even matter. He probably wouldn't be able to string enough words together to tell me, anyway. Better to leave him alone. I take a seat on the other side of the room as he repeats his words over and over again. "I can do better. I can do better."

A few of my friends trickle through the room. Lana. Devon. Neither of them seems quite sure what to say. I told my mother I was planning to volunteer, but everyone else … it was probably a surprise. What will they think? What _do_ they think?

No. It doesn't matter what they think. It only matters what _I_ think about it. Whether _I_ think I did the right thing. That's what father taught me. Follow your gut, regardless of what anyone else tells you is right. That's what he said.

But following his gut got father killed.

No. He didn't get himself killed, no matter how many people tell me that. The Capitol killed him. Plain and simple. They killed him, but I'm not going to let them kill me. I'm not going to let them scare me. I'm not afraid of them. And soon, they'll all know it.

* * *

 **Felicity DeBrier, 14  
** **District Eleven**

Everyone keeps telling me not to worry. _Don't worry, Felicity, they won't pick you. Don't worry, Felicity, they'll probably pick rebel soldiers or children of rebel soldiers. Don't sorry, Felicity, your family's been lucky so far._

But that's just the point. We _have_ been lucky so far. Very lucky. Almost _too_ lucky. We were as sympathetic to the rebels as anyone else in Eleven at the start, but neither of my parents actually fought in the war. They couldn't afford to leave us, not when my brothers and sisters were so young. And even with a war on, someone needs to keep growing the food, or else the soldiers starve.

Before long, both sides realized that, and the raids began. Capitol bombers began targeting our fields instead of buildings in the hopes of starving the rebels into a surrender. Mutts were released on the borders of Eleven – both smaller rodent-like vermin that targeted our crops, and larger predators to scare us away from the fields. With food scarce, rebel soldiers began collecting food from families in the district – peacefully, at first, but, as the war dragged on, they would simply come in and take what they needed.

It was almost a relief when the rebels surrendered, and the war was finally over. In fact, it _would_ have been a relief, if not for the Games. Everyone seems convinced that the Capitol will only target the rebels – or, at least, those who were more actively rebellious. And maybe they're just being hopeful. But will the Capitol really make that distinction? Or, in their eyes, are we all equally guilty?

Or maybe it's scarier to think that _anyone_ can be chosen. That the 'tributes' aren't necessarily people who have done anything wrong, but simply two kids who happened to be unlucky enough.

And we've been lucky so far. None of our family got caught in the bombings. Our home was never raided. We haven't been attacked by mutts. We may have come out of the war frightened and shaken up, but we made it through unharmed.

Can that sort of luck really last?

I hold my little brother Emery's hand as we make our way to the square. He's only twelve – just old enough for the reaping. The others are even younger, so they join the crowd outside the roped-off section that's reserved for those of us between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Potential tributes. There are so many of us, but still…

"Well, hello there, District Eleven." A man in a funny blue suit is onstage beside the mayor. His hair is a bright silver, but he doesn't look much older than some of the boys around me. "My name is Lucius Hollister, and I have the _pleasure_ of being assigned to this district as your escort." He smirks. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

With that, he takes a step towards one of the two bowls on the stage beside him. I give Emery's hand a squeeze and hold my breath. _Please. Just let us get lucky one more time._

Lucius quickly chooses a name, unfolds it, and steps up to the microphone. "Felicity DeBrier!"

My hand clenches tightly around Emery's. I knew it. I _knew_ it! We couldn't get that lucky. We just couldn't. Emery squeezes my hand as tightly as he can. There are tears in my eyes, and suddenly the Peacekeepers are coming for me. They pry Emery from my grasp. Two of them take hold of my arms and drag me towards the stage, flinging me down at Lucius' feet.

It's a moment or two before I can even stand, and longer before I dare look out at the crowd. A few of the others are looking at me with pity, but most of them just seem relieved that it wasn't their name that was picked. That they aren't the ones onstage. My whole body is shaking as Lucius reaches into the second bowl. _Just don't pick Emery._

I couldn't handle that. I'm barely handling this. Who am I kidding? I'm _not_ handling this. If they pick my brother, too…

"Aldous Clement!" Lucius calls, scanning the crowd, maybe hoping for a better prospect from the boys. It's a long moment before I catch a hint of movement at the back of the roped-off section. One of the older boys starts making his way to the stage. But he's moving slowly. Limping. As he gets closer, I can see the cane in his left hand. And his right hand – it's gone, along with most of his right arm, the sleeve of his shirt flopping flatly against his chest as he walks.

He hesitates a moment before climbing the stairs to the stage, and the Peacekeepers, tired of the delay, finally step in. One of them knocks the cane from his grasp while the other two drag him the rest of the way up the stairs and dump him unceremoniously beside me. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm at his side, helping him up, asking if he's all right.

Which is a stupid question, of course. Neither of us is all right. Neither of us is going to be all right again. But as he struggles to his feet, leaning on me a little, he manages a small smile. "I'm all right."

He's not. We're not. But, for a moment, maybe we can pretend. He gives my shoulder a squeeze and glances over at Lucius, who rolls his eyes. "Well, shake hands already."

Aldous hesitates a moment before holding out his left hand – his only hand. I shake it as gently as I can, and he squeezes back reassuringly. But before he can say anything, the Peacekeepers take hold of us again, and we're dragged off the stage and into the Justice Building.

I'm trying not to cry as they dump us in an empty room and close the doors behind us. But I can't hold back the tears any more. Aldous slips his arm around me as the two of us sit together on the floor. It's not fair. It's not right. But at least we're not alone.

* * *

 **Aldous Clement, 17  
** **District Eleven**

It isn't long before Felicity's family arrives. I try to back off a bit, give them their space, but the room isn't exactly large to begin with, and there are quite a few of them. Four younger children – two girls and two boys – along with her mother and father.

There's a part of me – maybe a larger part than I'd like to admit – that's jealous. My own family was killed when the Capitol started bombing the fields. My parents and sister were caught in the bombing, and my grandmother died a little after.

At least, that's what I was told. I wasn't here at the time. I was off playing soldier. When the war broke out, I begged my parents to let me join the rebel forces. When they said no, I ran away, anyway, and joined up with the first unit I could find. They told me I was too young to fight, but, when I refused to leave, they agreed to let me carry messages to the front lines. They assumed that would satisfy my thirst for action while keeping me relatively safe.

They were wrong – at least about it keeping me safe. Not that it was their fault, of course. I should have seen the mine. One wrong step, and I was thrown backwards, lucky to be alive. They amputated my right arm and parts of my right leg, and that was it for my message-carrying career.

But as I recovered in their makeshift field hospital, I found a different job. I began helping the others care for the soldiers they brought back from the front. At first, it was simply because I was bored, tired of lying in bed waiting for my injuries to heal. But it felt good to be useful. I stayed on long after my wounds had healed – the rest of the war, in fact.

"Aldous?" Forge's voice interrupts my thoughts. I start to stand up, but he shakes his head and takes a seat beside me, instead. "Is there anything…?"

I shake my head. There's nothing he can do. There's nothing anyone can do. I don't stand a chance in this fight, and we both know it.

"If it could be me, instead…" He trails off. He was always the better soldier. One of my first patients, he had kept fighting despite taking a bullet to the chest and a pile of shrapnel in his face. It wasn't until after we had finished tending to his injuries that one of my fellow medics told me he had been fighting for the _other_ side.

Originally from District Two, Forge had signed on with the Capitol forces as eagerly as I had joined up with the rebels, convinced he was protecting Panem from the dangers of a rebellion. But once he saw the conditions in the outer districts, he began to have his doubts. And after the war was over, he chose to stay in Eleven rather than trying to return to District Two.

At first, my friends and neighbors were suspicious. Admittedly, he does stand out quite a bit. His pale skin, his blue eyes, his accent. But he ignored all of that and took a job in the fields. Slowly, people came around, just as I had. Over the past year, we've become even closer. He may even have volunteered for me, if he could. He would certainly have a better chance…

But he's too old. Three years older than me, already safe from the reaping. And maybe that's good. At least one of us gets to live. One of us gets to have a long, relatively safe life in District Eleven. He can take care of himself. Even if I'm gone – _when_ I'm gone – he'll be able to move on.

Which is why I can't be too jealous of Felicity. Not really. More family means she has more comfort now – but it also means more people whose lives and hearts will be shattered if she doesn't come home. More people who will cry, more people who will ask themselves if there was anything they could have done, any way they could have stopped this from happening.

There isn't, of course. Nothing could have stopped this. It seems inevitable now – maybe it was what was bound to happen from the start of the rebellion itself. We were convinced that we were right – and that, because we were right, we were destined to win. Most of us didn't even stop to consider what would happen if we lost.

But lose we did, and it's too late to change that now. Too late to go back and wish we had done things a bit differently. All we can do now is try to protect what we have left. To enjoy whatever we have for as long as we still have it.

Forge squeezes my hand tightly. "Take care of yourself, you hear? Don't do anything stupid." He smiles a little. We both know. We only met because both of us did something stupid. And, as rough as it is sometimes for the two of us, I wouldn't trade our friendship for anything.

Before long, the Peacekeepers come, taking both Forge and Felicity's family away, leaving the two of us alone again. She's crying again – not that I blame her. She certainly has more than enough reason to.

And maybe I do, too. But after three years of tending the wounded on the front lines, after having patients die in front of my eyes, after coming home to find my family gone … I've run out of tears. I don't have any left for myself. And if this is the time I have left, then I'm going to make sure I use it.

I limp over to Felicity's side and wrap my good arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close. "It's all right," I whisper, even though it's not. "It'll be all right." And maybe it won't – at least not for me – but, for a few moments, we can forget that. And maybe that's all that matters.

* * *

 **And here's our first reaping chapter and our first four tributes. As you've probably figured out, we're not going strictly in order with the reapings. We're planning to have six reaping chapters - two districts per chapter - in the hope of helping things move along. The reaping half will be told from one of the tribute's perspectives, the goodbyes from the other.**

 **Also, the blog is ready, and the tributes are up. Technically, we're still waiting on one tribute's quote - you know who you are - but we went ahead and came up with something on our own, anyway. If you don't like the quote/picture we came up with, feel free to PM us something different. We won't be offended. We just wanted to have something to put up.** **After the reapings, we'll go ahead and add a short bio to each of the tributes' posts, but we didn't want to give away too much ahead of time.**

 **In case you haven't found it yet, the blog is at _chaosisaladderhg . blogspot . com_ (take out the spaces)**


	5. If You Think This Has a Happy Ending

**If You Think This Has a Happy Ending**

 _"If you think this has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention."_

* * *

 **Memphis Ash, 18  
** **District Four**

Most of them just want to go back to their lives. I can see it in their eyes as they walk past. The fishermen and the shipwrights, the shopkeepers and the craftsmen – all trying to piece together the lives they had before the war. All trying to go back to the way things were.

Maybe I would be doing the same, if I had something to go back to. Maybe I would be running back to my family, holding onto whatever I could find of my old life, grateful that the Capitol hadn't been able to take everything from me. The trouble is, of course, that there's nothing for me to go back to.

When the rebellion broke out, my father was the mayor of District Four. Determined to prove himself to the Capitol, he announced that, as a token of his loyalty, I would be joining the Capitol army. When my twin sister Angelica and I flatly refused, he shot her on the spot, then turned the gun on me, promising me the same unless I agreed to fight for the Capitol.

I lost it. Maybe he did, too. Maybe he had lost it long before that, or maybe he was simply worried about what the Capitol would do if he didn't appear loyal. I grabbed a knife from the table and attacked him. The gun went off again, but, before I even realized that he had shot me in the leg, my knife was in his chest. He managed to gasp out an apology, but it was too late. It was too late for everything.

By the time the Peacekeepers found him, I was long gone. Instead of joining the Capitol forces, I signed on with the rebels. I was only fifteen, but I've always looked older than my age, and one of the soldiers, a man named Dixon, took me under his wing. Before long, I was one of the best marksmen in my unit.

But we were outnumbered. Outmanned. During one of our final missions, my left eye was blinded by shrapnel, but I kept fighting because we needed every man we could get. But it wasn't enough. Those of us who survived the last wave of the Capitol's attack were scattered throughout the district, still on the run. It's only a matter of time, though, before the Capitol catches up to us. So I intend to beat them to it.

I join the other teenagers in the district square, making sure to position myself near the front of the group. There isn't much competition for the front spots. Everyone wants to be as far away from the stage as possible, as if that will decrease their chances of being chosen. But that's not how it works. If the Capitol wants to find you, they will.

A woman struts onstage, taking her place next to our new mayor, Ms. Chambers. Another figurehead who will do exactly as the Capitol asks without question – maybe out of loyalty, maybe out of fear. Maybe it doesn't matter.

"Hello, District Four! I'm Sylvia Shaw, and I'll be your escort this year," the woman croons, flipping her yellow hair to the side. "As you all know, we're here today to select two tributes for the honor of representing District Four in the very First Annual Hunger Games. We'll start with the girls." She takes a step closer to one of the two bowls onstage, reaches in, and draws a name. "Bliss Loverly!"

A few whispers spread through the crowd, and it's not hard to guess why. Most of us had assumed that the names of rebels would be drawn, but the Loverly family is one of the most vehemently pro-Capitol families in the district, responsible for most of the Capitol propaganda circulated during the war. Why would they choose her?

She seems to be wondering the same thing as the crowd finally parts around her, prompting her to step forwards towards the stage. She glances out towards the crowd, towards her parents. Her father takes a step towards her, but her mother puts a hand on his arm. Any sort of protest now would ruin their image – and maybe her chances.

Bliss doesn't seem to see it that way, though, and she stands there, staring, until two Peacekeepers come to escort her. Only then does she snap out of it and start walking towards the stage. She's shaking as she passes me.

Maybe she thought her family's position would protect her. Maybe she thought she was safe. She was wrong. No one is safe from the Capitol. Those of us who fought during the rebellion – we were fighting so that little brats like her _would_ be safe. But we lost, and now everyone pays the price. Loyalists and rebels. Soldiers and innocent bystanders. Everyone.

Sylvia smiles a little as Bliss takes her place beside onstage. "Wonderful! And now for our young men." She reaches into the second bowl, swirling the names around a little before choosing one. "Sebastian Timmons!"

The words have barely left her mouth, however, before I take a step towards the stage. "I volunteer!"

Sylvia looks me over once before nodding. "And what's your name, young man?"

"Memphis Ash." There are a few whispers in the crowd, and Bliss takes a step back. They haven't forgotten. Once I killed my father, the Capitol did their best to paint him as a martyr for their cause. The Peacekeepers onstage look like they would rather shoot me on sight than let me volunteer for the Games.

But it's out of their hands now. I take my place beside Bliss, ignoring the glares from the Peacekeepers and the stares from the crowd. There was no choice – not really. Either I wait for the Peacekeepers to find and execute me, or I volunteer for the Games. And if I die in the arena, well, then maybe I can take one or two of the Capitol loyalists with me.

Maybe even Bliss, who's still shaking as she holds out her hand. I shake it, but we both know it's just a formality. We were on different sides of the war. We're on different sides now. If there's anyone I won't feel one shred of guilt for killing in the arena, it's her.

* * *

 **Bliss Loverly, 16  
** **District Four**

There must be some sort of mistake. There has to be. They can't really have meant to pick me. They weren't supposed to pick people like _me_. This is supposed to be a punishment for the rebellion. Which means they're supposed to pick rebels. Or at least soldiers. People who are already prepared to kill each other.

Memphis certainly looks like he's ready to kill me. He hasn't taken his eyes off me since the Peacekeepers led us to a small room in the Justice Building. I've tried to keep my distance, of course. We all know what he's capable of.

It's no secret – what happened between him and his father. Everyone knows the story – how Angelica and her father were both staunch Capitol loyalists, killed by their unhinged, rebellious son. How Mayor Ash died shielding his beloved daughter from his son's onslaught.

And now we're in the same room. We're going to be in the same arena. And the Capitol expects us to kill each other. And not just us. They expect us to kill tributes from other districts. Older, younger – whoever they happen to pick. We knew it was going to happen, but why did it have to happen to _me_? Why couldn't they pick someone who actually deserved it?

The door opens, and my parents rush in, along with my older brother, Drake. "Honey, I'm so sorry." My father's voice is thin and frightened, and my mother is trembling. "I didn't realize … I just assumed…"

My arms are shaking as I hold them close. Of course he assumed – we all did – that I would be safe. "Maybe it was some sort of accident," my mother offers. "Maybe if we spoke to someone – that lady, Sylvia, maybe – I don't know, do you think there's anything she could do?"

"Maybe it wasn't an accident," Drake says quietly.

Our parents turn immediately. "What do you mean?" father asks sharply. "You think they meant to pick her?"

Drake shakes his head. "Maybe. They do need someone to win, after all. If they only picked rebels, the only certainty is that they'd end up with a rebel as their Victor. What if they don't want that? What if they picked her so that … well, so that someone loyal can win?"

I didn't even think of that. But it makes sense. Of course they don't want a rebel to win the Games. Of course they don't want someone like Memphis to win. I may not be a soldier, but I'll have the Capitol on my side, and that's even more important.

Maybe I have a chance, after all.

My parents hug me tightly as the doors open once more, and the Peacekeepers tell them it's time to go. "Be careful," my mother whispers. "We love you."

"I love you, too," I call as they're escorted out.

Once they're gone, Memphis snorts a little. "You don't actually believe a word of that, do you? You don't really think they're going to let you win just because your family was on their side during the rebellion."

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look more confident than I feel. "Well, it's certainly not going to hurt my chances. You, on the other hand – you really think they'll ever let you win? You murdered your family!"

Memphis scoffs again. "Yes, I'm sure that's what everyone thinks. That's the lie your family's been spreading since the war. But all your lies, your stories, your slogans – they're not going to do you any good when there's a knife to your throat."

"And I suppose you think you'll be the one holding it. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised – if you'll turn on your family, you'll turn on anyone."

"My family turned on _me_! My father tried to force me to join the Capitol army!"

"Did you ever stop to think about why? Did you ever think that maybe he was trying to protect you – to protect the whole district? That maybe he realized you and your stupid little rebellion had no chance? That, if he refused, the Capitol could just kill you, anyway?"

For a moment, he hesitates. But only a little. Before I can dodge, his hands are around my throat. "Help!" is all I manage to scream before his fingers tighten.

But that one word is enough. The Peacekeepers rush in, and immediately move to restrain him. His hands leave my throat, and I fall to the floor, gasping. One of the Peacekeepers slams his club into Memphis' stomach, and he crumples to the floor beside me. Another one jabs him with some sort of needle, while a third fastens cuffs around his wrists.

One of them helps me to my feet. "Are you all right, miss?"

I nod a little. I'm all right. For now. But if I couldn't even defend myself against Memphis, how am I supposed to take care of myself in the arena? Once we're in the Games, the Peacekeepers won't be there to save me. I'll have to do better – _much_ better – if I'm going to survive.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

 _I must be crazy._ There's no other explanation for it. For what I'm thinking of doing. What I'm about to do. But there's no way around it. It's the only way to save him. The only way to save myself.

I got lucky, when they came for us – me and Leo. I got away. But it's only a matter of time before they find me, before they find my family, before they kill us all. Unless…

Unless I do the unthinkable. Unless I volunteer for the Hunger Games. I caught a bit of the reaping in District One. They're letting people volunteer. And why not? Given the choice, why wouldn't they want volunteers? It's my choice, right? My life that I'm thinking of throwing away.

Except it isn't. Not really. It stopped being my life the moment the Peacekeepers caught Leo. We were distributing pamphlets – that's all. Not attacking the Peacekeepers, not stealing, not rioting in the square. Just passing around the start of a book. But that's even more dangerous to them. People can be stopped. People can be killed. But words…

That's what we told ourselves during the rebellion. Even if we were caught, even if we were killed, our words would live on. It's an easy thing to say, but a harder thing to believe when you're actually being chased by Peacekeepers who would happily crucify you in the square. All of a sudden, dying nobly for the rebellion doesn't seem quite so appealing.

I force myself to glance up at the posts as I turn the corner towards the square. Posts circle the outer edge of the square, thick and forbidding. Beams hang from a few of them – planks of wood that hold the bodies of rebels. A few dead, a few dying. But not Leo. And not me. Not yet.

They can't kill all of us, of course – everyone who was involved in the rebellion. There would be no one left, or near enough. So, every so often, they round up one or two of the leaders. The ones who made the most trouble. It might have taken them a while to get around to us – if they got there at all – if we had just been content to stay quiet. If we had just laid low for a while.

But Leo never wanted to lay low. Never _wants_ to lay low. Wants, not wanted. He's not dead. I'm not dead.

But I will be, if I don't do this. They have him. They'll find me. Then they'll kill us both, and probably our families, too. But if I volunteer, they'll have to leave them alone – for a little while, at least. And if I win, they'll be safe forever. My cousin Leo. My parents. His parents. We'll be safe and free to live out the rest of our lives.

That's the promise, at least. Whoever wins the Games is promised a life of plenty and luxury. Not that I'm after riches. I'm content with the part where we're promised a _life_.

It's not a certainty, of course. I could die. But if I stay here, I _will_ die. Given those two options, I'll take 'could die' any day.

The crowd quiets as an older man joins the mayor onstage. For a moment, my breath catches in my throat, and I almost rethink my whole plan. Tyrone. _General_ Luther Tyrone is our escort. Why would they send him here, of all places, and not somewhere a bit more prestigious? Why not District One or Two, districts that remained loyal? Districts he would be proud to represent?

Two bowls filled with slips of paper stand beside him. The general doesn't waste any time. But as soon as his fingers touch the slip of paper, I know the name he's about to read doesn't matter. _He_ doesn't matter. All that matters is that this is my chance. My _only_ chance.

"Cecily Alder." Tyrone reads, his voice surprisingly calm and even.

My own voice quickly drowns his out as I rush towards the stage. "I volunteer! Please! Please, I volunteer!"

The general raises an eyebrow, glancing at the sixteen-year-old section, where a girl who must be Cecily is staring, waiting for his decision. "Very well," he agrees in the same soothing tone. "And what might your name be?"

"Silver … Well, it's Saturn, actually. Saturn Grayne. But everyone calls me Silver because, well—" I brush a lock of silver hair out of my face.

Tyrone actually chuckles a little at that – a warm, deep chuckle, like you'd expect from a grandfather, not one of the Capitol's most renowned generals. "A pleasure to meet you, Silver." He holds out a hand.

Is this a test? If it is, it's one I have to pass. I shake his hand as firmly as I can, then step aside as he makes his way to the second bowl of names. Once again, he gives no hint of showmanship. He simply dips his hand in and chooses the first name his fingers touch. "Simon Galley."

Galley. Simon Galley. The name sounds familiar, but it's not until he starts to make his way through the crowd that I manage to place it. Simon Galley, one of the first soldiers to rally the district against the Capitol. Simon Galley, who had marched with a small band of fighters all the way to District One before being taken by Capitol forces.

I hadn't realized he was still alive. Or that he was young enough to take part in this reaping. I had always pictured him older, from the pamphlets Leo and I had spread during the war. Not that he looks particularly young or small now, as he makes his way through the crowd. He's easily a head and a half taller than me, and looks like he could snap me in half like a toothpick.

As he nears the stage, however, someone else rushes forward. "Wait! I volunteer!" One voice, then another, takes up the cry. Simon shrugs them all off, striding calmly up the steps and glaring at Tyrone. "Tell them they can't. Don't let them volunteer."

Once again, the only hint or surprise the general shows is a raised eyebrow. "Tell them yourself," he suggests calmly, then turns to the crowd. "The chosen tribute, if he or she so wishes, may refuse any or all volunteers." He sounds as if he's reading from a rulebook, but no such rule exists – or did. But no one makes a move to question him, and Simon's friends return reluctantly to their places.

As Simon holds out a hand, however, I can't help but wonder _why_ they tried to volunteer – and why he refused them. Was it simple loyalty? Were they honestly trying to sacrifice themselves for him, and was he simply refusing to let them die for his sake? Or was there something more?

There must have been a reason, after all, why the Capitol let them live. Was it simply so that one of them could go into the Games now? Could it be that he refused them for the same reason I insisted on entering? Is the Capitol planning to kill them if he doesn't return?

Simon's hand closes around mine, and I do my best to shake his hand firmly. Peacekeepers lead us from the stage and towards the Justice Building, but I can already hear noises behind us. Shouting. Someone calling for quiet. For calm. Then I hear four words. Four chilling words. _Wait until they're gone._

* * *

 **Simon Galley, 18  
** **District Seven**

I don't know what I was expecting when they brought us to the Justice Building, but it wasn't this. They brought us to the same room, then simply left and closed the door behind them. That was hours ago. Or, at least, it seems like it. There's no way of knowing for sure.

"Where are they?" Silver mumbles, not for the first time. I've been trying to give her some space, but the room isn't very large. And she doesn't seem particularly interested in crying in a corner. Which is both good and bad, I suppose. On the one hand, I'd much rather deal with someone pacing the room and muttering complaints about the time than someone sobbing and blubbering. On the other hand, she's beginning to make me nervous.

"Maybe they forgot about us," I offer hopefully. We both know better, but she smiles a little, anyway. That's better. Almost like having one of my friends with me. The friends who became my life after my parents were killed by the Capitol. All we have are each other.

Which is why I couldn't let them volunteer, as much as part of me wanted to let one of them take the risk, instead. I'm the one they chose. I'm the leader. If I'm the one they need to make an example out of, then so be it. At least my friends will be safe.

Finally, the door opens, and Tyrone steps inside. My fists clench involuntarily as I fight the urge to strangle the bastard. He was the one who finally caught up to us in District One, who had us shipped back to District Seven in chains and disgrace, kept soundly under lock and key until the war was over.

Except the war isn't over. Not yet. As long as one of us rebels still draws breath, the war will go on. Maybe in secret, maybe in hiding, but it will take a lot more than a few chains and a few threats to break our spirits.

"I apologize for the wait." His tone is formal. Strained. It doesn't take a soldier to figure out that something is very wrong. "The president allotted this time for the families and friends of tributes to come and say goodbye."

Silver immediately stops pacing, whirling to face the general. "Where are they? Our families?" She's only a beat ahead of me as she takes a step towards the older man, surprisingly intimidating for someone her size. "Why aren't they here?"

Tyrone shakes his head. "I'm sorry, young lady. I'm sorry, both of you. I tried to persuade them otherwise, but … I had my orders." He flicks a switch along the wall, and a screen comes on. A screen showing the district square, the crowd still gathered for the reaping. I can see myself onstage. The Peacekeepers lead Silver and me away.

And then they round up my friends. Ty and Lyle. Lauren and Coil. Ren and Thyme, Kire and Jim. Peacekeepers surround them, as well as a man and woman who must be Silver's parents, and another couple standing nearby. Last of all, a boy only a little older than Silver is dragged roughly through the crowd until he's standing beside the others.

They begin with Ty. It takes two Peacekeepers to bring him down with their clubs, and another two to hold him face-up on the ground as a third binds his arms in place along a wooden plank. He's still struggling against his bonds as they drive a metal spike through each of his hands. Then they lift him up, hoisting him higher and higher with their ropes and fastening the beam in place against one of the posts that circle the square. He's kicking at them as they hang him up, but they finally manage to catch hold of his feet, and one of them bind his legs to the post as a second drives a spike through each of his feet and deep into the wood.

One by one, another after another, they crucify my friends. Nail after nail, scream after scream, until they circle the square. Then the Peacekeepers turn their attention to Silver's family, who are holding each other, crying, wailing, as one and then another is taken away and hung up beside my friends. They save the boy for last, hanging him alongside Ty.

The crowd murmurs, and some of them cry, but no one does a thing. They know the penalty. We all do. Any attempt to help the condemned – bringing them water, shooing away the birds that gather – earns a severe lashing. Any attempt to hasten their deaths, and the offender is hung up along with them. How many times have I passed by those posts and done nothing? Now 'nothing' is exactly what will be done for my friends.

I don't even realize my arms are around Silver until she squeezes back, tears streaming down her cheeks. Tears cloud my eyes, as well – tears of grief, yes, but also tears of rage. I round on Tyrone, my fist connecting solidly with the general's jaw. He nods, conceding. "That one you get for free. But don't do it again."

"Give me one good reason not to." What do I have left to lose? My friends – the only family I have left – are as good as dead. No, _worse_ than dead. Condemned to hang there, helpless and humiliated, in front of the whole district until the flies and the birds come, until the rain pelts and the sun beats down on them, until they finally – _finally_ – die. How many times have I seen it happen? If I had known that was what they had planned…

Then what? What could I have done? I could have let one of them volunteer in my place. Then, at least, our places would be exchanged. I would be dying, and one of them would have at least a _chance_ at life. But which one? How could I have chosen?

Instead, it's me. _I'm_ the one who has a chance to live. I, who was determined to die so that they wouldn't have to.

"You really thought you were saving them, didn't you." Tyrone's voice catches me off-guard. His tone is soft – almost gentle. "You thought that if you came back a Victor, then … what? The Capitol would forget everything that you and your friends did during the rebellion? Why do you think you were allowed to live this long? The president knew you would provide a good show during the Games."

"And you, Silver." He turns to my district partner, who looks like she _is_ finally ready to curl up in a corner and cry. Not that I blame her – not now. It's one thing to face your own death, but her family … to die like _that_ … anyone would cry. "We offered you a second chance, you and your cousin. If you had only gone back to your lives, we could have left you alone. I wish you had. I wish…"

He shakes his head. "But wishing for it doesn't make it so. You made your choice, and the consequences are … unfortunate, for both of you, and your loved ones."

"Unfortunate." I take a step closer. I still haven't heard a good reason not to kill him here and now. I'm as good as dead, anyway. If I can take one of the Capitol's leading generals with me…

"Unfortunate," the general repeats. "But you two – you're still alive. Maybe that doesn't mean much to you – and maybe you'd rather be dead right now. That would certainly make my job a lot easier. But if you want to live – if there's even a small part of you that wants to get out of this alive – then you need to _listen_. And you need to obey. Can you do that?"

No. No, I can't. I can't obey him – this man who has just executed my friends. I can't obey him, and I certainly can't listen to him. But I can pretend. I can put on a show. I can make him _think_ he's changed my mind. And then, when the time is right, we can make him pay for what he's done.

* * *

 **Hello there. Twice in one weekend, eh? We're on a roll! And what's a Roman-style gladiatorial game without a few Roman-style crucifixions, right? Are you not entertained?**

 **All joking aside, we feel some explanation is owed to the submitters of these two tributes, Simon and Silver, because this is almost certainly not what you intended when you handed them over to us. Their motives for volunteering - or for refusing to let their friends volunteer - were noble, heroic, brave ... which is not a bad thing in and of itself. Their reasoning made sense ... but their reasoning was flawed. Maybe the Capitol in other stories would feel compelled to let the families of tributes live, despite their crimes, at least as long as the tributes were alive and in the Games. But that's not what the Capitol is here. The Capitol is ruthless, unforgiving, cruel - because that's what they had to be to win the war.**

 **It's monstrous, yes, but this is a dystopia for a reason. Life is not a song, our sweet summer children. In a dystopia, the monsters win.**

 **Happy Hunger Games.**


	6. Where Men Believe it Resides

**Where Men Believe it Resides**

" _Power resides where men believe it resides. No more and no less."_

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

It doesn't make sense. Any of it. I've been trying to make sense of it ever since the announcement, but none of the pieces seem to go together.

The Capitol wants to punish us for the rebellion. Okay, I can understand that. They won, and now they feel there has to be some sort of retribution. But wouldn't it make more sense, then, to choose soldiers for their Games? People who actually had some part in the rebellion? Why choose children?

Unless it's simply to scare us. To frighten us away from the idea of ever rebelling again. But then why dress it up like a game? Why not simply choose a few children and have them executed? Why pretend it's something we should enjoy?

Unless they think the people in the _Capitol_ will enjoy it. And maybe some of them will – the ones who lost someone in the rebellion, who have a reason to be angry at the districts. But surely most of them will realize that the tributes are just children, and probably had nothing to do with the war at all. Even if they're careful to choose children whose parents were rebels, it wouldn't be _their_ fault.

 _If_ they choose children whose parents were rebels. Maybe it's a cruel thing to hope for, but it would make sense. And it would mean that I'm safe.

That was the whole reason, after all, behind my parents' cooperation with the Capitol: to keep my sister and me safe. Near the start of the rebellion, emissaries from the Capitol came to recruit some of the district's leading scientists. Biologists, geneticists, experts in any field – but especially those related to animals.

A few refused, including one of my father's coworkers. But the Capitol quickly took care of them. They weren't executed – at least, as far as I know. Executions might be common in other districts, but not in Three. Here, people just … disappear. One day, they're here, living their lives, going to work, meeting their friends for dinner. And the next, they're gone, and everyone knows better than to ask why or where they've gone.

Maybe they're dead. Maybe they were turned into avoxes for the Capitol. Or maybe they're imprisoned somewhere, in some dungeon or prison, subjected to whatever punishment – whatever torture – their captors might think up.

Not knowing is definitely scarier.

But my parents – they went along with the Capitol's demands. And, as the war dragged on and we heard stories of attacks by mutts in the outer districts, I knew. They tried to protect me, to turn off the screen whenever news about mutts surfaced, but I knew. Those mutts – those monsters – were my parents' handiwork.

And maybe that's a terrible price to pay for safety. But if they hadn't cooperated, the Capitol would have found someone else. Someone who was willing. Someone who had even more to lose. There will always be people willing to do their dirty work.

Like the man onstage now, grinning, his short black-and-yellow hair matching his bright yellow shirt and black-and-yellow striped pants. A man who introduces himself as Leopold Royalle. He seems to be enjoying this, but is it an act? Surely he can't be _happy_ that he's about to call two children to their deaths.

A hush falls over the crowd as Leopold reaches into one of the bowls onstage. Smiling – almost laughing – he draws a slip of paper from the bowl and unfolds it. "Carina Ellison!" he calls.

Most of the girls around me relax a little as one and then another realizes they're safe. Then there's movement off to my right, and an older girl steps out of the crowd. Seventeen or eighteen, maybe – very tall but also rather thin. I can't see her very well until she's onstage, but she seems like a good choice.

There's no such thing as a good choice, of course. Not for a fight to the death. But if it has to be _someone_ , well, isn't it better for it to be someone older? Someone who can hold her head up high without a hint of tears in her eyes? Someone who actually looks like she might have a chance…

"Lincoln Tantalum!"

I can't help jumping a little as Leopold's voice startles me out of my thoughts. How did he know that's my name? How could he tell that I wasn't paying attention? How…

Then I glance up, and I see the piece of paper in his hands. The slip that holds my name. Everything starts to fall into place. He picked _me_. He actually picked _me_.

I should move. I should start walking. I should do _something._ But I can't – not until I see the Peacekeepers headed towards me. Slowly, my feet begin to move, but it still doesn't seem real. I'm shaking as the Peacekeepers reach me. One of them takes my arm and gives a tug. I start walking a little faster. Struggling to keep up.

Up the steps. Three, four, five steps up to the stage. There are tears in my eyes as Leopold motions me over, smiling broadly, as if for some reason he thinks I'm as good a choice as the girl.

But I'm not. I can't do this. Why don't they realize that? Leopold says something – something about shaking. _I'm_ shaking. Carina apparently heard what he said, though, because she reaches out, takes my hand, and shakes it firmly before turning her icy stare back towards the audience.

Then it's over. The cameras switch off, and the crowd starts to leave. Carina and I are herded towards the Justice Building. My legs move, but it's as if I'm sleepwalking. Or as if I just woke up from a dream, and I'm still trying to piece together what was real and what was a dream.

But it's not a dream. Tears finally start to spill down my cheeks as the door shuts behind me and Carina. They chose me for their Games. Of all the children they could pick, they chose _me_. What did I do wrong?

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

They're still acting – my father, my mother, my siblings. Still playing the happy family. The dutiful family. The family that wasn't torn apart by the war, the family that isn't missing a member because…

No. No, that won't help. There's nothing I can do about that. Not right now. The rest of my family simply pretends Isadore doesn't exist – maybe that she never existed at all. I can't do that, but I also can't afford to worry about her right now. Right now, I have to worry about myself.

No one else is going to, that's for sure. My father is sitting next to me, but he might as well be a world away, and the same goes for most of them. They're more concerned with protecting the family image than their actual family members. If I die, I'll be written off as a shame to the family – just like Isadore. And if I live…

If I live, maybe I can make it right. My sister, our family, the rift that was created when she was taken away. Maybe I can fix it.

Not that it's my mess to fix. None of this was my fault – or hers, for that matter. When the war broke out, our parents were quick to back the Capitol. My father's an expert businessman, a master at choosing the right side. He chose early and decisively, opening our house to both Peacekeepers and Capitol soldiers – those who had been injured in the fighting and those who simply needed a place to stay.

They always made me a bit nervous, to be honest, but we all went along with it. It seemed like a simple way to stay in the Capitol's good graces, and, for the most part, they weren't causing any trouble. They weren't hurting anyone.

Until one of the Peacekeepers starting coming on to Isadore. Subtly, at first, but then more forcefully. When he started getting a bit too physical, she fought back. He hadn't been expecting her to resist, and she quickly got the upper hand, managing to get a few blows in before his fellow Peacekeepers pried her off of him.

Father insisted she made a mistake. That she must have done something to encourage him, to provoke him. But we all know better. Her only mistake was assuming she could fight back and escape unpunished. A mistake any of us could have made.

A mistake _I_ might have made in her place.

It was only because of my father's position that she wasn't executed on the spot. Instead, she was sent to an institution, declared insane and hidden away from the rest of the district. I used to visit, but, as the months wore on, the idea that she was crazy seemed to have taken root somewhere inside her mind. Maybe spending so much time with people who _are_ crazy starts to have an effect, because, little by little, she's drifted farther and farther away from us.

The rest of them ignore her. They pretend. They still give off the image of a happy family. A whole family. They'll do the same if I die – go on as if I never existed, pretend that I did something to deserve this.

Maybe I did. It wasn't an accident, after all, that they chose me. After Isadore was locked up, my friends and I became much more sympathetic to the rebels. We did whatever we could to hinder the Capitol's efforts – setting fires, distracting the Peacekeepers. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough for them to label us as rebels. Enough for me to be reaped.

It isn't long before my family leaves. Maybe they realize it, too. The Capitol doesn't choose anyone by accident. They do everything for a reason – and those reasons are never good.

The boy's family certainly realizes it. My own family left of their own accord, but his lingers until the Peacekeepers come for them. His mother, father, and a younger girl who can't be more than five or six – all of them crying.

And maybe I shouldn't be jealous. We're in the same position, after all. And, all else being even, I have a much better chance than he does. He's barely five feet tall and rail thin, and his eyes are already red with crying. He doesn't stand a chance, and they all seem to know it.

But there's a part of me that can't help but envy their honesty. They're not hiding their feelings. They're not pretending to be happy. Because there's no _reason_ for them to be happy. They have no image to protect. The two of us are about to be competitors in a fight to the death. It's frightening. It's horrible. It's terribly unfair. And the fact that they realize that, that they don't mind acknowledging it and expressing their dissent – even in as small a way as crying over a child who's going to die – it's oddly refreshing.

They won't forget him. If he dies – no, _when_ he dies – his parents won't shrug it off and pretend he never existed. They won't come up with some story about how he deserved exactly what happened to him. They won't go on with their lives as if their son didn't die a horrible death at the Capitol's hands.

Finally, the Peacekeepers drag them away. They're still shouting to him as the door closes behind him – shouting that they love him, that they'll always love him. And he's at the door, shouting, crying, promising that he'll do his best to come home.

But he won't. He can't. Because _I_ have to. And if I'm going to come home, then that means he has to die. The little boy who's now crumpled in a heap by the door, weeping, begging for another moment or two with his family, has to die. Maybe I'll even have to kill him.

The thought makes my stomach turn – not just because it would mean his death, but because it would mean giving the Capitol what they want. They _want_ us to turn on each other. They _want_ us to kill each other, to feel like we have no other choice.

But the truth is we _don't_ have any other choice. We have two choices now – all of us. Kill or be killed. Fight or die. And I don't intend to die.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

"At least they can't kill all of us," I point out as my friend Hannah and I slowly make our way towards the crowd that's gathering in the square. "Two children from every district. Probably ones with rebel connections, but, still – they can't kill _all_ of us."

Hannah shakes her head. "Of course they can't. That's the point. They can't kill all of us, so they're hoping that killing a few of us at random will do the trick. That the rest of us will be scared back in line by the thought that next year it could be us – any of us. Or maybe they're hoping that we'll start to cooperate because we know rebels are more likely to be picked."

" _If_ rebels are more likely to be picked," I remind her. We can't say that for sure yet – not really. It's just a rumor. An assumption that the Capitol would want to target those who were more involved in the rebellion.

Which would be bad news, of course – for both me and Hannah. My family was killed by the Capitol's bombs, her family by a pack of wolf-like mutts that were set loose on the edge of the district. We met when we both joined up with the rebels, looking for … what? Revenge? Purpose? Something that would fill the gap that was left when our families were stolen from us?

The rebels became our new family. A family we would kill for. A family we would die for, if need be. Both of us were lucky enough to escape the last wave of fighting alive, but there were others who weren't so lucky. Other friends who fell victim to the Capitol's thirst for blood, others who died in the name of freedom.

And there are times when I wish I was one of them. It would certainly be easier. Easier than trying to figure out how to get by now that my friends are gone, to figure out what to do now that the war is over, now that there are no more battles, no more armies, no more soldiers. Hannah and I both went to work in the slaughterhouse, both tried to go back to a normal life. But how do you go back to simply living from day to day, trying to earn enough to stay alive? How do you go back to that once you've seen people come together to fight for something more?

Quietly, Hannah and I join the other teenagers in a roped-off area in front of the stage. The crowd quiets as a woman takes her place by the microphone. Her icy blue hair marks her as a Capitolite, but, aside from that, she doesn't look so different. And she certainly doesn't look happy to be here. But _someone_ has to be here. _Someone_ has to choose two innocent children to fight in their stupid death match.

Just as long as it's not me or Hannah. I may not like what life has become here in Ten, and I may sometimes think everything would have been simpler if I'd died along with so many of my fellow soldiers. But I have no desire to be part of their Games. I'd happily kill twenty-three Capitol soldiers, but other children – other rebels?

"I'm Athena Lancaster," the blue-haired woman announces, "and I have the honor of choosing District Ten's tributes for this year's Games."

This year's Games. They're already assuming that the Games will be a hit. That we'll be standing here, doing this same thing, next year. And the year after. And the next. And the next. For how long? How long before the districts decide they won't stand any more? It's only a matter of time before we rise up again, stronger than before. The Capitol can't keep us in check forever. They can kill us, but they can't kill what we stand for.

Athena waits until the crowd settles down a little, then reaches into the first bowl and draws a single slip of paper. "Aubrey Ryans."

Of course. Of course it would be me. I can feel Hannah's hand on my shoulder as I grit my teeth and take a step forwards. Fine. Maybe I should have expected it. Maybe part of me _did_ expect it. I clench my fists as I keep walking towards the stage. One step, and then another. Soon, I'm standing beside Athena, and it's all I can do to keep from punching her in her smug Capitolite face.

Maybe I should. It's not like they can make things any worse for me. I've already been chosen for a fight to the death. What more can they do to me?

But something stops me. Maybe it's the look on Hannah's face as I glance back out at the audience. The Peacekeepers know she's my friend. If I did anything stupid, anything rash, there's no telling what they might do to her.

But there's something else. Something in her eyes. As if she's waiting – already waiting for me to come back. And if I'm going to have any chance of doing that, then I can't afford to start punching Capitolites – no matter how tempting it might be.

So I do nothing as Athena makes her way to the second bowl, then reaches in and draws another name. "Colton Hawkins!"

Hawkins. It's not a name I know. Nor does the boy look familiar as the crowd parts around him. For a moment, he glances around, eyes wide. Then he takes off – but not away from the Peacekeepers. Instead, he runs straight for the stage, nearly tripping over himself as he darts up the stairs, taking his place beside me. He's taller than me by at least half a foot. Somewhere around my age, probably – or near enough.

But as Athena tells us to shake hands, there's a strange look in his eyes – a look that's almost one of panic. He doesn't want to be here any more than I do. He doesn't want to kill, and he certainly doesn't want to die. He just wants to go back to his life.

And, as I take his hand, I can't shake the thought that maybe he _has_ a life to go back to. Maybe he has a family – one that's still alive. Maybe he has people who care about him, people who would miss him if he was gone.

How can I kill him? How can I kill any of them? These children who never did anything to me, who are only here because the Capitol chose them, too? How can they expect _any_ of us to kill each other? Have they considered the possibility – a possibility that seems very real now – that we simply _won't_? What would they do, I wonder, if we simply refuse to fight each other?

Colton releases my hand. Is he thinking the same thing? Is he wondering if he would have what it takes to kill me? To kill any of the others? What if none of us have what it takes? What if none of us want to play their Games?

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

It isn't until we're alone in the Justice Building that it finally sinks in. The Games. The Hunger Games. I'm gong to be in the Hunger Games. They chose me for a fight to the death. Me.

Why would they pick me? They never announced outright that they would be targeting rebels, but there was a sort of unspoken assumption that the Capitol would want to eliminate anyone they still considered a threat. Which definitely isn't us. We don't like the Capitol any more than anyone else, but we're not a threat. _I'm_ not a threat. Out of everyone they could have picked, why would they pick me?

Why? _Why?_ It's not until Aunt Dixie grabs my shoulders that I realize I've been frantically pacing the room. Where did she come from? I didn't even hear her come in. What—

 _Ouch._ A slap across the face brings my attention back to her. "Colt! Calm down. What's something you can see?"

 _What's something I can see?_ The question is familiar. "Your face." I can see her face. _What's something I can hear?_ I can hear my own breathing – fast and ragged. Okay. Okay. _What's something I can smell?_ Aunt Dixie. She smells like … well, like Aunt Dixie. _What's something I can feel?_ My face. It still stings. Now what's the last one?

Something I can taste. But there's nothing – nothing except for the familiar taste of fear. Aunt Dixie squeezes my shoulders again. "Better?"

 _Better._ There is no 'better' now. But I nod and sit down with the rest of my family. My parents, my two sisters, my aunt. "Promise me you won't do that in the Games," Aunt Dixie insists. "Promise me you won't panic."

As if it's that easy. As if it's something I can control. But I nod, anyway. I'll do my best, of course. I'll have to. Aunt Dixie shakes her head. "Promise me, Colt. I've already lost Russell and Robin. I can't lose you, too. Promise me you'll come back."

For a moment, the words stick in my throat. How can I promise that? With twenty-four of us going into the Games, and only one coming out, how can I possibly promise that it will be me?

But how can I not? How can I sit here and tell her that I don't have a chance? She's already lost so much. "I promise," I whisper. Then, louder, "I promise. I'll come back."

That seems to satisfy my family, and, when the Peacekeepers come to fetch them, they don't fight. They simply leave, along with a girl who came to say goodbye to Aubrey. "Was that your sister?" I ask without thinking.

Aubrey shakes her head. "My friend Hannah. My family … they didn't make it."

I nod. What am I supposed to say to that? _I'm sorry_ , I suppose, but, after a year of picking up the pieces after the war, those words seem to have lost their meaning. But I say them, anyway, because there's really nothing else to say. "I'm sorry."

Aubrey nods back. "Russell and Robin – were they your brothers?"

"My uncle and cousin. They didn't make it out, either."

No need to mention the rest. That, when the war began, the Capitol army went through the district, forcing the strongest men to join their army or die. Russell and Robin didn't _want_ to fight for the Capitol – who would? – but they also knew what would happen to their family – _my_ family – if they refused. They went with the Capitol recruiters, and we never saw them again.

That was when Aunt Dixie made up her mind that it wasn't safe in the district anymore. She took a group of us – my parents and the three of us children – and we fled the district along with a few other families. For three years, we lived out there in the wild, in one of the forested areas beyond the borders of District Ten.

Technically, that's just as illegal as being a rebel. If they'd found us then, we would have been shot then and there, without a second thought. Every crack of a twig, every rustle of movement, every sound could mean that Capitol soldiers had found us, or that they suspected there were people hiding in the forest and had sent mutts after us.

But they didn't. They never found us. And when we returned to the district after the fighting was over, we assumed that the worst of it had passed. A while later, we received word that Russell and Robin had died fighting in District Four, but, while we were all saddened by the news, we'd expected it for a while. We just wanted to go back to our old lives. Back to the way things were…

"Colton?" My head snaps up to look as Aubrey takes a seat beside me. How long has she been talking?

"What?" I ask, trying to sound like I was paying attention. If she was asking me a question, I have no idea what it was. _Way to make a good impression, Colt_.

Except it doesn't really matter, does it? Making a good impression on her? It's not like what she thinks about me will matter once we're in the Games. We could end up fighting each other. Trying to kill each other.

The thought makes my stomach churn. I don't want to kill her. I don't want to kill _anyone_. I've killed my fair share of animals, of course – we all did, in the woods. But killing _people_ …

"I was just saying that I'm sorry – about your uncle and cousin," Aubrey says quietly. But there's something else in her voice. Maybe a hint of jealousy. After all, most of my family is still alive. My parents, my sisters, my aunt – I still have them.

And maybe that's good. But it also means that if I die, more people will be hurt. She has her friend Hannah, but the rest of her family is already gone. If she dies…

Does that mean I deserve it more? That I deserve to win, rather than her, because I have someone to come home to? I have people who will care.

I glance away as Aubrey watches. How can I decide that? That I deserve to live more than she does? But I have to. I promised Aunt Dixie I would come home. I promised…

* * *

 **Wow, we're halfway through the reapings already. Sorry this chapter took a bit longer than the last two. On the plus side, the next chapter should be up rather soon, as well.**

 **Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing! It means a lot to us.**


	7. A Very Large Shadow

**A Very Large Shadow**

" _Power is a shadow on the wall. Yet shadows can kill. And ofttimes a very small man can cast a very large shadow."_

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

They still think this is going to work. The Capitol, the president, the cameramen who capture our faces as we enter the square. They still think their Games will go exactly as planned – that they can just throw a bunch of teenagers into an arena and expect them to kill each other.

Some of them might, of course. The Capitol loyalists and the rebels – they'll probably go after each other. But once it's down to one group or the other – or those who didn't take a side – how do they expect to force them to fight? Killing soldiers from the other side of the war is one thing, but expecting regular teenagers to just start killing each other for their entertainment? Do they really think it's going to happen?

Not that the Capitol will simply let them go, of course. They'll probably shoot all of them – or all but one, if they want to pretend that someone won. And the districts – does the Capitol really think the districts will stand for this? No, one or two years of this, and people will decide they can't take it anymore, and the rebellion will rise up again.

And this time, I'll fight. When the war began, my parents and two older brothers immediately joined up with the rebels. I begged them to let me go with them, but they insisted that someone had to stay home and take care of my younger sisters and brother. But they're older now. If – no, _when_ – the fighting begins again, Asher can take care of the others. He's fourteen now – almost as old as I was when the war began. Kauri's twelve, and even little Holli is ten now – practically old enough to take care of herself for a little while.

Unfortunately, that means Asher and Kauri are also old enough for this reaping, which doesn't seem quite fair. Who decided that it would be a good idea to pit twelve-year-olds against eighteen-year-olds? Kauri's big for her age, but, still, in a fight with seventeen and eighteen-year-olds, she wouldn't stand much of a chance.

I suppose that's why their names are in the bowl fewer times. One slip for twelve-year-olds, they said. Two for thirteen-year-olds, three for fourteen-year-olds. Which means my name is in the bowl seven times – more than both Asher and Kauri's combined. So they'll probably choose older children for their tributes. But, still, even the possibility that Asher or Kauri might be chosen … well, it scares the hell out of me.

I'm scared for myself, too, of course. But I'd have a better chance than they would. The little spare time I've had since the war ended has been dedicated to practicing with any sort of weapon I can find, so that I can be ready when the fighting starts again. It's only a matter of time. They can't expect this to last. They can't expect us to simply accept it.

"Hello, District Nine!" I nearly jump as a voice rings through the square – a voice that belongs to a young woman onstage. She can't be much older than me – in her early twenties, maybe. Her long, multi-colored hair – a light brown at the top, and rainbow-colored from about halfway down – is pulled back in ponytail, her outfit closer to a uniform than anything. "I'm Commander Phoenix LaVelle, and I could not be prouder to be standing here! Here, in just a moment, we'll be selecting our tributes for the First Annual Hunger Games! Let's hear it!"

Applause – piped in from the speakers that surround the square – fills the air. Kauri grips my hand tightly as Phoenix makes her way to the first bowl. "It's okay," I whisper. "It'll be all right."

Phoenix draws a slip of paper, and we all hold our breaths as she unfolds it. "And our first lucky tribute is … Sienna Poplar!"

Kauri's grip tightens, and even Asher lets out a gasp. "No, don't," Kauri whispers, but the Peacekeepers are already making their way towards us. I quickly pry myself away from Kauri. There's no way I'm going to give the Peacekeepers an excuse to hurt her. I clench my fists tightly as I make my way to the stage, where Phoenix is waiting with a smile on her face.

"Fantastic!" she beams. "What a wonderful choice for District Nine." She quickly marches to the second bowl and reaches in. "And our male tribute this year is … Peter Eldamar!"

At least it's not Asher. But, as the crowd parts and the boy steps forward, my stomach churns. He can't be any older than my little brother. He's thirteen or fourteen, at the most, and he's shaking as the Peacekeepers come to get him. He starts walking before they can reach him, however, and as he makes his way to the stage, he starts to look a little less shaky. But still…

He's still trembling as he takes his place next to me. Still trying not to look afraid, even though he must be terrified. Hell, _I'm_ terrified and I'm a good four or five years older than him. It's not fair, choosing him. It's not—

"Well, then, shakes hands," Phoenix grins, as if it's obvious that's what we're supposed to do. I hold out my hand, and Peter looks up at me, his dark brown eyes wide and frightened. Finally, he takes my hand, his own hand cold and clammy. I shake his hand firmly, then give it a gentle squeeze. _It'll be all right,_ I want to say.

But it won't. It's not all right. None of this is all right. Peter – he's just a little kid. How can they expect him to kill anyone? How can they expect anyone to kill him?

It's not fair – none of it. I take Peter's hand as they lead us to the Justice Building. He squeezes my hand tightly, just like Asher or Kauri or Holli would. I squeeze back gently, reassuringly. _It'll be all right._

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

I've never felt bad about a lie before. During the war, lying was simply necessary to keep my family alive. Lying kept the Peacekeepers from suspecting anything. Lying kept both the rebels and the Capitol loyalists from realizing that the small hospital my mother had set up inside our house was actually treating patients from both sides of the war.

Sure, it was dangerous. Maybe it was even a bit scary. There were times when I had to think fast, times when I was certain someone was going to figure out what we were up to. But everything always turned out all right. And, in the end, I had no reason to believe it wouldn't. We just had to be quick enough, clever enough, resourceful enough, and everything would be okay.

And I was good at it. Probably better than most people would be comfortable admitting. But I never saw it as anything to be ashamed of. Some people are good at math. Some people are natural field workers. I've always been a good liar. And there were times when it was fun. Almost like a game.

That's the sort of game I'd be good at. But this … this is different. When we were trying to keep our movements secret from both sides of the war, there were lives at risk, yes. But, at the end of the day, our goal was to save lives. Lives from either side. The idea that we're about to be thrown into an arena to _kill_ each other, instead … I don't know. Lying is one thing. Maybe I hurt some people's feelings along the way, but that's just about it. Certainly no one ever _died_ because of anything I said.

But that will have to change, if I'm going to survive. And I don't know if I can do that. I don't even know if what I just told my family was true or not.

That's a strange feeling. You would think that, sometimes, the truth would be hard to keep track of. But it isn't, really. The important thing is keeping track of which versions of the truth you've told to which people. But the truth – the _actual_ truth – I've never really had any doubt about what that was. We were saving lives. We were doing the right thing. No matter how many lies we had to tell to cover it up, that was the truth. What we were doing was right. It was good.

Now … I don't know. I don't know if I'll be able to keep the promise I just made to my family. They're already gone, of course. The Peacekeepers took them away quickly. But the words remain. _Of course I'll be coming back._

Of course. As if it were obvious. As if, out of the twenty-four of us who are going into the Games, I'm the clear choice for a Victor. Of course I'll be the one to survive.

Maybe they even believed it. Maybe my parents want so badly for it to be true that they'll actually believe I have a chance. But do I? Against twenty-three other teenagers? The other tribute from Nine – the girl – she's older than me. Taller. Stronger. More capable. If the rest of the tributes are like her…

And why wouldn't they be? We were all expecting, when the rules were announced, that they would choose older teenagers. My name was only in the bowl twice. There were plenty of seventeen and eighteen year olds whose names were in there six or seven times. I had no reason to think they would choose me.

But they did. And there's no hiding from it now. No running, as much as I want to. I told my family I would be coming back. I promised. Lying never bothered me before, but this … this can't be a lie. I have to make this one come true. I have to.

"It's Peter, right?" The girl's voice surprises me. Her family is gone, too – the three younger children who came to say goodbye to her. Her brother and sisters, probably. But no parents. Are they dead? Captured? Does she even know?

No. No, I can't start doing that. Can't start making up stories about her – especially ones that might make me feel sorry for her. This is a fight to the death, after all, and she's … well, she's the competition. Isn't she?

I nod, anyway. "Peter Eldamar. What was your name?" I remember, of course. It's Sienna. One thing about being a good liar – always remember the details. But there's no reason _she_ needs to know that.

Sure enough, she answers, "Sienna," as she sits down next to me. Close enough for me to see the wet spots on the shoulders of her dress where her siblings were crying. "Those were your parents?"

 _Obviously._ "My aunt and uncle, actually," I lie. "My parents – they were killed in the war, along with my older sister." I shake my head. "It's funny. Her … her name was Sierra. Almost like yours." It's a lie, of course. But a harmless one. And if it earns me a little sympathy…

Sure enough, Sienna wraps an arm comfortingly around my shoulder. "Almost like mine," she agrees. "My parents died in the fighting, too – and my two older brothers. But my younger brother Asher … he's about your age."

"I thought he looked familiar." Another lie. District Nine is huge. I can't be expected to know every other boy around my age. Especially with a war going on. "I just wish we had met somewhere else."

"Me, too," Sienna agrees immediately, giving my shoulder a squeeze. She doesn't want to be here any more than I do. Who would? But being here with someone else … maybe it's not so bad.

Of course it is. Having company isn't going to fix anything. And it's certainly not going to change the fact that, in order for one of us to live, the other one has to die. Those were the rules. One Victor. Only one. It can't be both me and her.

But maybe it's too early to worry about that. Just because one of us is going to die doesn't mean that we have to be the ones to kill _each other_. She doesn't want to kill me – that much is obvious. And I certainly don't want to kill her. I don't want to kill _anyone_.

But I'll have to, if I want to come home. And I _do_ want to come home. It's not perfect, but it's something, and something is always better than nothing. And _that's_ the truth.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

The square is already full of people by the time we get there. For a moment, I consider suggesting that we simply try to slip away quietly. There are so many people here already. Who's really going to notice that a few teenagers are missing from the crowd?

Unless, of course, one of us is chosen. It's not impossible, I suppose. My name is in the bowl seven times, like every other eighteen-year-old in the district. Just like Lenora, Killian, and Foran. My sister Ilene's name is in there five times. Five slips of paper. Seven slips of paper. It doesn't sound so bad – not when there are hundreds of slips of paper in the bowl onstage. Maybe thousands. What are the chances that they'll actually pick one of us?

In any case, it's only for one year – for the four of us who are eighteen, anyways. One year, and it'll be over. Just one reaping. Just one reaping to get through, and then we're safe from these "Hunger Games" forever. Just two names. They just need to pick two names.

The man onstage, however, looks like he'd rather pick another district entirely. As the five of us take our place with the other teenagers, he finally stands up and approaches the microphone. "Well, then, let's get this over with. I'm Grant Aquinas, and I'll be your escort this year."

 _This year_. From the way he emphasizes the last two words, he doesn't expect to be in District Twelve long. Not that I blame him, I suppose. It's not exactly the best place to live. But it could be worse. Maybe District Twelve isn't much, but at least we're still alive here. Which is more than we can say for District Thirteen.

That's one thing the war taught me, I suppose. It could always be worse. No matter how bad things get, there's always something else out there waiting to make the nightmare even worse. And maybe that's a cynical way of looking at things, but it also taught me to appreciate the good things I _do_ have. I have my sister. I have my friends. My parents are gone, but, well, it could always be worse.

"Let's start with the girls, then," Grant drones on as he makes his way to the first bowl. I glance over at Ilene. Lenora. Foran. As long as it's not one of them, then it's okay. Someone is going to be picked. Someone is going to die. But as long as it's not my sister or one of my friends…

Then what? Then I don't care? Maybe. It's not as if I _want_ to see two kids from our district die. But so many people died in the war – including children – that it almost doesn't matter anymore, as long as it's not someone I care about. As long as it's not—

"Tullia Litvina!"

And it's not. The name isn't familiar at all, which isn't surprising once the crowd starts to part around the girl. She's younger than any of my friends – maybe twelve or thirteen. Short and thin, with black hair and grey eyes, she certainly wouldn't stand out in a crowd of Seam children. But among the others going into the Games … How many are really going to be her age? What sort of chance does she have?

From the look of her, she's thinking the same thing. As the crowd parts a little more and the Peacekeepers start to make their way towards her, her eyes dart from side to side. This way and that. Looking for something – someone, maybe – to rescue her.

But, when no one does, she bolts. It takes the Peacekeepers a moment to register what's going on, and, by that time, she's made it through about half the crowd. I can't help a smile as she keeps running, but it doesn't take the Peacekeepers long to catch her. She's kicking and screaming as they drag her to the stage, but, finally, one of them levels a gun at her head.

That calms her down, all right. She's twelve, not stupid. Given the choice between going into a fight to the death and being shot on the spot, even a slim chance is better than none. After a moment, the Peacekeeper lowers his gun, and she stays perfectly still. Obedient. But still trembling a little as Grant approaches the second bowl and draws a name. "Elijah Maleri!"

 _Shit._ I didn't even have time to wish for it not to be me. Not that it would have done any good, of course. The Peacekeepers start making their way towards me almost immediately – maybe expecting me to run, too.

For a moment, I want to. For a moment, I almost wish we _had_ tried to sneak away from the crowd earlier. That might have bought me a few more moments, at least. But they would have found me. There's nowhere to hide in District Twelve. Maybe it's better if I just start walking.

It's the guns that eventually make the decision for me – guns that are pointed not at me, but at my friends, standing around me. Maybe I have to go into the Games, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let them kill my friends because I was too scared to walk to the stage on my own. I take one step, then another, and, before I know it, I'm standing onstage next to the younger girl.

Grant says something I don't quite catch, and the girl holds out her hand. It takes me a moment to register what she wants. "Shake hands," Grant repeats, and I finally do. Such a pointless gesture. As if we're two equal competitors in this death match. As if she really stands a chance against a group of teenagers my age.

But does that mean that _I_ actually have a chance? I hadn't really thought of it like that, when the Games were announced. I'd assumed – like so many of us – that they would choose soldiers. People who already knew how to fight. People who would have an advantage. But if the rest of them – the rest of the tributes – are normal teenagers like me…

Then what? Then I have a chance? A chance of winning? Of being able to kill all of them and come home? Maybe. Maybe there's a chance. It isn't much, but, right now, it's all I have. And maybe that's enough.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

Running wasn't good enough. I wasn't fast enough to get away from them. I was so close – _so_ close to the edge of the crowd – by the time they finally caught me. I was almost there.

Except that wouldn't really have done any good. Even if I'd managed to get out of the square and away from the Peacekeepers … then what? There were cameras watching the entire time. They would have been able to follow me. They would have found me, anyway. Nothing would actually have done any good.

Nothing ever does. I learned that during the war. When the rebellion began, my family immediately sided with the rebels. We thought what most of the rebels thought – that if we were determined enough, if we fought hard enough, we could actually make a difference. That we could change Panem for the better.

We were wrong. Wrong about everything. Maybe not wrong about the way things should be, but wrong to think that we had any chance of getting there.

And now we're paying the price. These Hunger Games – they're our own doing, in the end. People like may family, who thought we were going to overturn the Capitol – we ended up making things worse for everyone.

Everyone, yes, but especially the twenty-four of us, condemned to fight to the death for the Capitol's entertainment because we were stupid enough to think that anything was going to change. How many of us are paying the price for our parents' actions? How many of us were chosen specifically because we're related to rebels?

Not that I blame my parents. They didn't know. None of us did. How could we? But that's not going to save us from the consequences. It's not fair. It's not right. But nothing else is, either. So why should we expect this to be? Maybe this is just how the world works.

Finally, the door opens, and my family enters. I brush a few tears from my eyes, but it must be obvious that I've been crying. Neither of them say anything, though. Of course I was crying. Who wouldn't be? They just chose me for a fight to the death. Me! To fight against other teenagers, most of whom are going to be older. Stronger. What chance do I really have?

What chance to any of us have? In the end, only one of us is going to win. One out of twenty-four. Not good odds even under the best of circumstances, and I'm certainly not under the best of circumstances.

But maybe. Just maybe. Maybe if I'm clever enough. Maybe if I try hard enough. Maybe, just maybe, there's a chance.

I shake my head a little as my parents sit down next to me. That's the same sort of thinking that got them in trouble during the rebellion. Maybe there's a chance. Maybe things will work out.

But things never work out. That's just the way it is. Nothing is going to change.

Nothing is ever going to change.

My parents wrap their arms around me. Trying to comfort me. Trying to pretend – if only for a moment – that everything is all right. That it's going to be okay. That there's something – anything – they can do to keep me safe.

But there isn't. I'm not safe. I'm certainly not going to be safe in the Games. And maybe there's no point in pretending otherwise. No point in pretending to hope. Pretending that things will turn out. There's no point in lying to each other – or to ourselves.

So we say nothing. And maybe that's better. Maybe it's better to simply hold each other. To share one last moment together before…

Before the Peacekeepers come. Too soon, they open the door again, taking both my family and a group of teenagers who came to see the boy. One of them – maybe his sister – clings to him until the Peacekeepers come to tear her away. My parents, on the other hand, go quietly. They've learned.

Maybe they know. Maybe they've realized that it can't be a coincidence that I was chosen. That if they put up any sort of resistance, even the slim chance I have of coming out alive will disappear. If they want to have any hope of seeing me again, they have to cooperate.

Was that the real meaning behind the Games? It's no secret they were intended to keep rebels in line, but I assumed, like most people, that they would target people who were actively involved in the rebellion. Soldiers. Teenagers who ran errands for the rebellion, or maybe those who helped as medics. People who would actually stand a chance in a fight. People who could provide a bit of entertainment before their deaths.

I never stopped to consider that maybe … maybe it's even more frightening to choose people who _aren't_ prepared. After three years of war, we're used to seeing soldiers fight for their lives. We're used to seeing people with at least some amount of training trying to kill each other. We're used to death. So simply killing twenty-three rebel soldiers … that wouldn't mean much. Not in the grand scheme of things.

But people like me. People who weren't involved in the fighting. People who just want to go back to a normal life. The idea that _we_ could be chosen for the Games – that's even more terrifying. Even more of a display of the Capitol's power. Even more of a reminder of just how helpless we are. A reminder that, in the end, there's nothing we can do to stop them.

* * *

 **Man, reapings are tedious. Sorry this one took a while. But only two more reaping chapters to go!**


	8. Nothing is Just Nothing

**Nothing is Just Nothing**

" _Nothing isn't better or worse than anything. Nothing is just nothing."_

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

I'm still not quite sure what people are so upset about. Everyone's convinced this is going to be terrible. Horrifying. Cruel. And maybe it is, but it's certainly not as bad as a three-year war. After so many horrible things that happened during the war, are people really going to get upset about _this_?

Probably not. At the end of the day, two children will die. But let's face it – people die here all the time. What's so much worse about them dying in the Capitol, or in this arena of theirs? Why is it so much crueler that they're going to be the ones killing each other? There were plenty of children killing each other in the war – on both sides.

Or almost children, anyway. During the war, that line sort of got blurred – the line between childhood and adulthood. Some children started acting more like adults. Some adults started acting more like children.

And some … well, some like me have the best of both worlds. I'm lucky enough to still have my mother, at least, so I don't have to support myself. But she's never treated me like a little kid. She trusted me to take care of myself, to take my own chances, to find my own way.

My own way. Maybe it's not the way other people would choose – or even the one they want – but, hell, I'm happy. And, in the end, that's all any of us can ask for: a happy life. Productive? Meaningful? That's all well and good, but so many people try to hard to do something worthwhile with their lives that they forget to be happy.

That's something I never want to forget – to be happy. The rush of trying something new – whether it's a new puzzle or a new drug or a new hobby. Because that joy – that thrill – it's the best kind of rebellion there is. The Capitol wants us to be afraid. They want us to feel alone and helpless. Being happy, no matter what they do to us – that's better than fighting in a war. Better than anything else we could do to oppose them.

So I'm smiling as I enter the square. I get a few strange looks, but I'm used to that. It's unusual to see someone smile nowadays. Most people don't think they have any reason to. But anyone who's still alive – anyone who was lucky enough to survive the war – has a reason to smile. A reason to be happy. A reason to live.

The square is packed full of people by the time I arrive. Okay, maybe I'm a little late. Maybe that's why they're staring. But it's not as if I missed anything important. There's a woman onstage talking – a woman with blue hair and frighteningly pale skin. Obviously from the Capitol. I'm too late to catch her name, but it's obvious that she's the one in charge now.

Or at least the one in charge of trying to get us excited about these Games. She has a smile on her face that's even wider than mine – and that's saying something. There are two bowls next to her onstage, filled with little pieces of paper. Seven of those pieces of paper have my name on them. At least, I think it's seven.

That's one good thing, at least, about this reaping – it'll be my only one. The rules said two tributes between the ages of twelve and eighteen, so after this year, I'm safe. I just have to make it through one of these silly things, and then it's over. That's no so bad, right?

The woman approaches one of the bowls, microphone in hand. "For District Six's very first tribute for the Hunger Games … Let's hear it for Sylvana Pain!"

She said it wrong. It's not Pain. It's Pae-an. Wait. She said my name. My name. Shit. Okay, breathe. Breathe. Count to ten. One. Two. Three …Ten. Yeah, ten.

Okay. I take a few steps towards the stage. Then a few more. Blue is still grinning at me, so I smile back. No harm in being friendly. And it might even help. "It's Paean, actually," I offer as I take my place onstage beside her. "As in a song of triumph."

Blue beams back. "Ah, how fitting. Thank you, Ms. Paean."

"Just Paean, actually." It's what all my friends call me, so why not? Not that Blue is my friend. Is she? Is she trying to be? In any case, at least she's not competition.

Blue is still smiling as she heads for the other bowl, swirling the names around a little before drawing from. "And for our male tribute … Horario Garcia!"

The name doesn't sound familiar, but it's a big district. I can't be expected to know everyone. After a moment, the crowd starts to shift a little, parting around a boy a bit younger than me. Fifteen or sixteen, maybe? It's hard to tell – he's towards the back of the crowd. After a moment, though, he takes a few hesitant steps forwards, his fists clenched at his sides. He's scared, of course, but he finally manages to make it to the stage.

"Well, then, shake hands," Blue gushes. Horario holds out a shaky hand, and I clasp it firmly, trying to smile. Trying to find something in this moment worth enjoying. But even I have to admit, there's not much. There's not really anything good about this situation at all. On the other hand, that means there's nothing that could make this day any worse.

* * *

 **Horario Garcia, 15  
** **District Six**

I didn't think there could be anything worse than being chosen for a fight to the death. But it turns out, there is. This is worse. Having to explain to Abuela that I have to leave. That I might not be coming back. That I might _die_.

I leave out that last part. No need to worry her with that. If I come back, none of that will matter, and we can go back to our lives. And if I don't … the others will find something to tell her. Exactly what, I'm not sure, but … well, that won't exactly be my problem.

Abuela listens as we explain – my parents and me – and nods a little. But I don't think she really understands. She seems to be understanding less and less, not really registering what's happening around her. Sometimes, I don't think she even knows there was a war. That so many people died. That we're lucky to still be alive.

Maybe not knowing is better. Maybe she's happier not knowing exactly what I've been chosen for, exactly why I might not be coming home. I finish my fumbling explanation, tears in my eyes as I throw my arms around her. "Te amo, Abuela," I whisper, not sure what else to say.

She ruffles my hair a little, mumbling almost to herself. But I manage to catch four words. "Yo también te amo." _I love you, too._

And maybe that's all that matters. Maybe that's the only thing that we need to say. Because everything my family has said so far, every word we've used to try to comfort each other, to make things a little better, could be summed up in those four words. _I love you, too_. Maybe that's the only thing any of us need to hear right now.

We sit in silence for a while, simply holding each other close. A family. The same family that made it through the rebellion without any losses. The same family that's always managed to survive whatever the districts or the Capitol see fit to throw at us. Maybe we don't thrive. Maybe we're not anything special. Maybe we aren't particularly successful. But we're still here. And that has to count for something.

But merely being here won't be enough to save me in the arena. The Capitol won't want to see people just surviving. If they did, they'd simply put it into twenty-four different arenas and see who lasted the longest. They can call it the "Hunger" Games all they want, but what they actually want to see is blood.

I shake my head, trying to ignore the thought. There will be time for that later. After my family is gone. They don't need to hear about any of that. I don't want to worry them. I don't want them to worry about me.

But it's more than that, really. I don't want them to think that I _want_ to kill. Because I don't. Not any more than anyone else in the arena. Probably less, even.

My family tried to stay neutral during the war, after all. I don't really have anything against either the rebels or the loyalists. Maybe that will be enough to convince the other tributes that I'm not a threat … or a target.

Maybe. For a little while, at least. But how long can I expect that to last? How long will simply not being a threat be enough to save my life?

Stop it. Later. There will be enough time for that later. For now, I simply hold my family close until the Peacekeepers come to take them away. They're still calling out to me. Telling me they love me. But part of me feels like I'm already gone. Like they're already shouting to me from a distance.

Like I'm already in the Capitol. Maybe already in the arena. Maybe I'm already dead.

"They must really love you a lot."

My head snaps up. I'd completely forgotten the girl was here. "I … yeah," I agree. What else am I supposed to say? I think there was someone here with her when my parents first arrived. Her mother, maybe? It's all a bit fuzzy. As if this whole thing isn't quite real yet. I don't even remember the girl's name…

Fortunately, she introduces herself. "I'm Paean. It's Horario, right?"

I nod a little. At least she remembered _my_ name. That's rare enough. I'm not exactly the most popular guy in the district. Not that people _hate_ me or anything. Most of them just don't seem to notice me. And most of the time, that's just fine. I don't really want to be noticed. And I certainly don't want to be noticed like _this_. I don't want _this_ sort of attention. But it's mine now, whether I want it or not.

"Pretty weird, huh?" Paean takes a seat next to me. "I didn't think it would really be me. I mean, my name's in there as much as anyone else's, but still…"

She's right. There was no real reason to think it _wouldn't_ be me. The Capitol doesn't exactly have any reason to want to protect me. But they don't really have a reason to want to kill me, either.

But if there's one thing I learned from the war, it's that they don't need a reason. And sometimes there isn't a reason at all. Sometimes bad things just happen. Sometimes the way things are is downright terrible. But it's the way things are. And there's nothing we can do that will make one bit of difference.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

The crowd is absolutely quiet as we file into the square. No one says anything. No one does anything. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. It wasn't absolute silence. Submission. Nothingness.

But sometimes the right thing to do _is_ nothing. Sometimes doing nothing will keep you alive. That's how my family got through the rebellion, after all, despite pleas from the rebels to help their cause. So while most people in District Eight were doing their part in one way or another – collecting supplies, treating the wounded, opening their homes to rebel soldiers – my family and I did our best to stay away from it all. Above it all.

And it kept us alive. The Capitol hasn't exactly been kind to the rebels and their supporters. It's not like they can kill every one of them, of course. There wouldn't be very many people left in District Eight if they killed every rebel sympathizer. But there are other ways to make their lives miserable. It's no secret that anyone who was a known rebel gets the worst jobs in the factories, the worst pay, and is much more likely to be dragged to the square and whipped for a minor offense.

So they resent us – those of us who _did_ manage to keep out of the mess that was the rebellion. As if our family could have turned the tide. As if we could have single-handedly tipped the scales in favor of the rebellion. Would that have happened? No. Not in a million years. But that doesn't stop them from blaming us. From insisting that if _everyone_ had fought, the war would have ended very differently.

It wouldn't have, of course. The rebellion was doomed from the start. The Capitol was always too strong, the districts too weak. But no one saw it. No one _wanted_ to see it. There are _still_ people who are convinced that the rebellion isn't over, that the districts will rise up again, stronger than ever, and crush our oppressors.

It's a lovely dream. But, too often, that dream keeps people from trying to make things better for themselves here and now. Maybe one day the rebellion will rise again. But not anytime soon. And, in the meantime, we still need to eat. We still need a place to sleep at night. We still need to live.

But there are two of us who aren't going to. Probably, at least. The Games are going to have a Victor – or so the Capitol said – but what are the chances that they would actually let someone from District Eight win? Not likely. What sort of message would that send? No, the Victor will probably be from one of the districts that remained loyal. One, maybe, or Two. Not Eight.

The crowd quiets as a woman takes the stage. She's older, and, unlike most Capitolites, she's not trying to hide it. Her silver hair falls simply around her face, her eyes warm and tired. Slowly, she makes her way to the microphone. "Hello, District Eight," she says quietly, half a smile forming on her lips. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Eve Barringer, and it's my privilege to be here today. I'll be serving as escort to this district's two tributes, starting with selecting them here today." She nods towards a pair of bowls standing nearby, filled with slips of paper.

Slowly, she approaches one of the bowls and reaches in. She draws a name, carefully unfolding it, as if might crumble to pieces in her fingers. At last, she reads the name. "Neblina Acosta."

The crowd stirs a little, looking this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of who the unfortunate tribute might be. Finally, a girl about my age steps out of the crowd and starts making her way towards the stage, her hands clenched firmly at her sides, her whole body tense as she weaves her way through the crowd.

By the time she makes it to the stage, the crowd has settled a little. Suddenly, this is real. Children going off to die in the Games – suddenly, it's not just an idea anymore. One of the tributes has a face. A name. That makes it harder to dismiss it. Now it's not "a tribute" who's going to die. It's a girl – a girl not so different from me.

I hold my breath as Dr. Barringer makes her way to the second bowl. If they could pick someone like her, then what makes me think I'm safe? They could pick me. I could be standing up there next to her soon. I—

"Kennedy Ford." I freeze as she reads the name. Me. She _did_ pick me. I can feel myself swaying a little, but I manage to keep my balance as the crowd parts around me. I take a step forward, but it all feels so strange. Everything that was so clear, so real, just a moment ago – it all seems fuzzier now. As if this can't possibly be happening. Not to me. Not here. Not now.

I take a deep breath as I reach the stage, taking each of the stairs as slowly as I can. As if that can somehow postpone what's coming. As if that can change my fate.

Because the Capitol won't care. They won't care that I'm not a rebel. That my family did everything we could not to take sides. They won't care that I didn't have anything to do with the war. We're all rebels to them. We're all guilty. And, worse, we're all expendable.

It's all I can do not to cry as Neblina holds out a hand. I'm trembling as I shake her hand, trying to look confident. Trying to look strong. But the truth is that I feel anything but strong. I feel so small up here. So helpless. I feel like nothing. Both of us probably look like nothing. And, unfortunately, that's all we are to the Capitol: nothing.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I wish they would give us a little more privacy. Everything about this room is too cramped, too close together to allow the two of us to really say goodbye. I can hear every word that Kennedy's family says, and I'm sure he can hear mine. My sister Tara, furious that I was reaped, but helpless to do anything because she's nineteen, too old to take my place. My mother, already weeping. Already mourning. First my father, and now me…

Her new boyfriend, Hector, wraps his arms around her as they leave. It's almost a relief once they're gone. They mean well, of course, but sitting here and crying isn't going to do any of us any good.

But then, moments after they leave, the door slides open once more, and Amelia enters. I brace myself for the same barrage of apologies I got from Tara. Surely she's going to say that she's sorry this happened, that she wishes she could take my place, and so on. And it's not that I don't appreciate it, but … well, who knows what either of them would really do if they were eighteen. Would they really have volunteered to take my place? It's easy to say, but harder to do. Harder to actually give up your life for another person than it is to _think_ that you _might_ do it, if circumstances were a bit different.

And that's okay, because the truth is, I don't know if I would _want_ them to volunteer, even if they could. It's not that I want to die, of course – no more than anyone else does. But I don't want either of them dying _for_ me, either. They mean too much to be – both of them. My sister, who I've had to look out for more often than not. Anyone who didn't know us would probably think _I_ was the older sister, not her. And Amelia…

Amelia slides into a seat beside me. "We probably don't have much time," she says quietly, making an effort to keep her voice low so as not to disturb Kennedy and his family. "I want you to have this." She slips something into my hand. One of her rings. Her hands wrap gently around mine as I hold the ring. "I know you," she whispers.

For a moment, my heart stops. To anyone else, it might not sound like much, but to me … How many times have I told them that they don't know me? My mother, my sister, Amelia – it's almost become a tradition of sorts. It's not an insult – just a fact. They don't know what's really going on inside my head. They can't.

And maybe that's true for everyone. Maybe none of us really know each other, and we're just too afraid to admit it, or to face the fact that no one will ever truly understand us. I don't _need_ people to understand me. I can manage just fine without being coddled and tiptoed around. And, honestly, there are things that I wouldn't _want_ other people to know, because I don't want to burden them. Feelings I wouldn't want to share, because I know they won't reciprocate. Feelings like the ones I have for Amelia.

Which is why those three words terrify me. _I know you._ Does she know? Have I been so careless? What could I have done to give myself away? Was it something I said? Something I did? Have I been that obvious?

No. No, that can't possibly be what she means. There's no way she could know. She must mean something else – maybe just that she knows me better than anyone else does. Feelings aside, that much is probably true. She's spent more time with me, it seems, than my own sister has. She's been another sibling to me, really. And there are times I wish she could be more than that.

But that can't happen. Not between us. I can't burden her like that, knowing that she doesn't feel the same way about me. Still, there's something in her eyes as she wraps her hands around mine. Something in the warmth of the embrace that follows. Something about the way she holds my hand just a little longer than usual as the Peacekeepers come to lead her away. Maybe she _does_ know.

Finally, the door closes behind her, along with one of Kennedy's visitors – a girl about his age. Not similar enough in looks to be his sister. A friend, or maybe a girlfriend. There are tears in his eyes as he turns away from the door.

Part of me wants to help. To tell him it will be okay. But that would be a lie – and not a very convincing one, at that. He knows better. We both do.

"What are they waiting for?" Kennedy mumbles. "Why don't they just get on with it?"

I can't help a bit of a smile. Something about the way he said it reminds me of my father. He was never one to wait around and waste time when there was something to be done. He always wanted to do his part, to pitch in, to help others along – whether it was something large or small. Whether he would get anything out of it or not.

I'm about to reply when a strange look crosses Kennedy's face. "I've seen you before – at the undertaker's."

There it is. _That's_ the sort of comment I'm used to. I nod a little. "I help out there sometimes," I answer matter-of-factly, earning the raised eyebrows I'm used to getting from such comments. People don't expect a teenager to enjoy taking care of dead bodies, but, if I'm being honest, sometimes the dead are better company than the living. At least the dead don't pretend to have you figured out. The dead don't claim to know what's best for you.

"I guess this is pretty familiar, then," Kennedy offers, and I cringe a little. He's trying to make conversation. But sometimes it's just a better idea not to. Because the fact is that this isn't familiar at all. By the time the bodies reach the undertaker's, they're already dead. Preparing a dead body for burial … it's nothing like actually seeing someone die. Nothing like actually killing them.

At least, I imagine it's not. It's not like I've killed anyone before. If he's trying to imply that I have any sort of advantage because of my hobby, he couldn't be more wrong. But there's really no point in correcting him. "I suppose so," I shrug. No point in arguing. He doesn't need to know. He knows nothing about me. And maybe that's the way it should be.

* * *

 **Only one more reaping chapter to go! Time to start thinking about alliances. If there's any particular alliance you'd like for your tribute, please let us know, and we'll try to make it happen.**


	9. A Beast in Every Man

**A Beast in Every Man**

" _There is a beast in every man, and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand."_

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

It's way too hot in the square. There are so many people, so many teenagers, packed so closely together. I made sure to arrive early and claim a good spot to stand – near the front, up close to the stage. Some of the others are hanging back, as if standing farther away from the action somehow lessens their chances of being chosen. But that's not the way it works.

So there's no harm in getting close. Whatever you may think of the Capitol, of the Games, you have to admit that history is being made here today. And the chance to see that up close – I'm not about to miss that. Not again.

I missed out on the fighting during the war, after all. I trained with the recruits in District Two, ready to fight on the Capitol's side. But by the time we finished our training, the war was practically won, and we were never needed in the field. I've tried to keep up with my training since the war ended, but it's been harder and harder to find a reason.

Some of my fellow trainees chose to become Peacekeepers after the war. But that's never had the same appeal for me as being a soldier did. Some of them try to glamorize it, pretend they'll be doing the same things they would have been doing during the war. But Peacekeepers aren't soldiers. Most of the time, they just walk around the district, keeping an eye on things.

Maybe it's different in other districts. More rebellious districts. After all, it didn't take District Two long to join the Capitol's side during the rebellion. So maybe they monitor the other districts a bit more closely. Still, there's not much call for good fighters among the Peacekeepers. As long as you can hit people with a stick and know how to swing a whip, you're qualified. I want to do something better. I've _trained_ to do something better. Something more.

But that doesn't matter. The war's over, and, if these Games serve their purpose well enough, it will be a long time before anyone even _thinks_ of rebelling again. And that's all well and good, but it's left some of us feeling a bit purposeless. What am I supposed to do now?

"Welcome, everyone!" A voice startles me out of my thoughts as a man onstage steps up to the microphone. His look is vaguely militaristic – close-cropped hair, a dark blue button-down shirt and matching pants with a stripe down the side. But the man himself? He would never pass as a soldier. His shoulders are slouched, his balance completely off, and his smile far too wide.

Still, he's certainly having fun pretending. He takes another step towards the microphone, grinning. "What a fine day for our very first reaping. Are you excited?"

Vague murmuring fills the crowd. Excited isn't exactly the word I would use. But there is something else. A sense of anticipation. But not dread. Maybe it's strange, but this whole reaping doesn't seem that frightening.

"I know I am," the man continues, answering his own question. "My name is Titus Taveras, and I'll be taking care of your tributes' needs from the moment they're selected until they enter the arena. It's truly an honor to be here. District Two proved their loyalty to the Capitol during the war, and you have a chance to prove it again today. These Games … they're not a punishment. They're an opportunity. An opportunity to prove your loyalty to the Capitol and your willingness to fight for your district's honor."

With that, he makes his way to one of the bowls, filled with slips of paper. My name is in there seven times – as much as any other eighteen-year-old. And maybe that's fair. It certainly wouldn't be fair for the little children around me to have the same chance of being chosen as I do. I would have a chance in the arena. Most of them, on the other hand…

"For our female tribute – Gardenia Carys!" Titus' eyes scan the crowd as the people around me begin to part. In my surprise, it's a moment before I take a step forward. I suppose there was always a chance it was going to be me – as good a chance as anyone else – but, still, I wasn't quite expecting it.

Still, I take a step towards the stage, grateful now that I chose to stand so close by. It doesn't take me long to climb the steps, and, soon, I'm standing beside Titus, looking out at the crowd. I nod a little. Everything he was saying about proving our loyalty, about fighting for our honor – maybe he's right. In any case, I don't exactly have a say in the matter. I'm going to be fighting in the arena, and I'm not going to go kicking and screaming. I'm not going to make a scene. I'm a soldier. I know better.

I'm a soldier. I have a chance. Probably a better chance than most people would. Maybe that will be enough. They need someone to win, after all. Maybe they're counting on having someone like me.

Titus gives me a nod and makes his way to the second bowl. He quickly draws a slip of paper and unfolds it. "And for the males – Vance Feldspar!"

It's not a name I know. Not anyone who was training to fight during the war. I know practically all of my fellow recruits by name. And, sure enough, as the crowd parts and a boy takes a few hesitant steps forward, it's clear that he's no soldier. He's only a year or two younger than me, but he's shaking like a leaf, swaying back and forth as if in a trance as he makes his way towards the stage.

Once he's onstage beside me, he's no better. He simply stares in shock until Titus instructs us to shake hands. Still, he does nothing until I practically grab his hand and shake it. As soon as I let go, his arm slumps back to his side as he continues to stare, dumbfounded, until the cameras switch off and we're led away.

Maybe I should be grateful. He's competition, after all. The weaker, the better. Still, it seems a shame, after everything Titus said about loyalty and honor, to end up with such a coward at my side. He's not going to last five minutes in a real fight.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

I won't last five minutes in a real fight. What are they thinking? How could they possibly have picked me? Are they insane?

Okay. Okay. Calm down. She's going to think I'm a nervous wreck. They could at least have separated us. Given us separate rooms. But, no, even after all that talk about taking care of the tributes' needs, about this being an honor, they couldn't even bother to find _two_ different rooms for us to say goodbye in?

Not that I'm particularly worried about privacy. My dad and I didn't have much to say. He left after only a few minutes. Not that I blame him. What is there to say? He could tell me to fight hard, I suppose. To try to make it back. But it's not as if I _wasn't_ going to, if he didn't say it. Not as if he changed my mind about trying to survive.

My friends, on the other hand, have some slightly more concrete advice when they arrive. "Stay away from her," Jenner mutters, keeping his voice low as he nods in Gardenia's direction. "She was with the recruits during the war. She knows what she's doing."

I nod a little, grateful for that bit of advice, at least. And Jenner would know. He volunteered to join up with the recruits, but he was cut for being "too undisciplined." Not much of a surprise, I suppose. Jenner's always been a bit of a troublemaker. But, for the most part, he's harmless.

It's not like he's a rebel sympathizer or anything. Just a bit of a practical jokester. And Fane and I – well, we're usually more than happy to go along with him. It's something to do. Something to keep us occupied and away from anything that's _actually_ dangerous. Like, say, a fight to the death.

Despite Jenner's warning, I can't help watching Gardenia. She doesn't look like she realizes how dangerous this actually is. That she might _die._ She and a man I assume is her father are sitting in one corner of the room, their expressions completely emotionless as they speak in hushed whispers. Doesn't she realize what's about to happen? What _is_ happening?

Maybe she simply doesn't care. Soldiers aren't supposed to care about their own lives, after all. All that stuff that Titus said about loyalty and honor and the opportunity to prove ourselves – maybe she's buying it. Maybe she really believes that it's an honor to be here, and not a death sentence.

Which is silly, of course. Where's the honor in killing each other for the Capitol's entertainment. How does that possibly prove our loyalty? Are we considered loyal because we went without a fuss? Because we didn't try to fight or run away from our impending doom?

Not that I didn't think about it. Part of me wanted to run. A pretty big part, if I'm honest. But running away from the Capitol never worked out well for anyone – even in District Two. Even here, where you would think it would be safe. Where you would think Peacekeepers would be less suspicious and it might be easier for a rebel sympathizer to go unnoticed.

But that's not how it works. It's not any safer for rebels here than it is anywhere else. If anything, it's harder for a rebellion to survive because not only are the _Peacekeepers_ on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary, but so is everyone else. Your friends, your neighbors, your classmates and coworkers – anyone is eager for the chance to turn over a rebel to the authorities. So eager that they sometimes get it wrong.

Like they got it wrong with my mother. She was as loyal as anyone else in the district, but she happened to piss off the wrong people during the rebellion. It's not hard to frame someone and accuse them of being a rebel – not when Peacekeepers are looking for rebels in every shadow, every hidden corner. They came to our house one night, busted down the door, and dragged my mother from her bed. The screams woke us all, but it was too late. Too late to do anything.

They slit her throat right there, in front of us. Then they dragged her body through the streets, only to leave it hanging in the square, the word _traitor_ carved into her forehead. She was left there to rot, along with a dozen or so others who had been accused. Were some of them rebels? Maybe. But a few of the others may have been people like my mother – people who simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. People who were unlucky enough to end up on the Capitol's bad side.

I guess it runs in the family.

Fane claps me shoulder encouragingly. "It'll be all right," he offers. "I'm sure most of the other tributes will be—"

"What?" I cut him off sharply. "More like me?" Less trained? Less prepared? Less likely to survive? If there are even one or two others in the arena with Gardenia's amount of training, I'm as good as dead. Maybe I'm dead even if it's just her. What chance does someone like me have against an actual soldier?

Fane shakes his head. "I didn't mean…"

Of course he didn't. What was he supposed to say? He was trying to help. But there's nothing they can do that can help me – unless they're planning to give me a crash course on how to fight. How to kill.

Even the thought of that brings the butterflies back to my stomach. They want me to kill. And maybe if the other people in the arena were rebels – all of them – then maybe – _maybe_ – I could convince myself that it was okay. And maybe some of them are. But how do you tell the actual rebels from the ones who were just unlucky? The ones like my mother? The ones like me?

And that means they have no way of knowing, either. For all they know – for all Gardenia knows – _I_ could be a rebel. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Does she know about my mother? Chances are, she doesn't. No one would remember the name of every accused rebel during three years of the war. But still … if she even suspects.

Maybe Titus is right. Maybe this is a chance to prove our loyalty. Or, at least, maybe it will _have_ to be, if we want to survive. And maybe I have to start right now.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

Everyone seems a bit too calm in the square. People shuffle by silently, their eyes on the ground, their hands in their pockets. As if none of us want to acknowledge why we're here. None of us want to admit that two kids are about to be chosen for a fight to the death. A fight they'll almost certainly lose.

Maybe we've just gotten so used to losing, we're not quite sure how to do anything else. Maybe it just seems natural that something like this would happen, after all the shit that happened during the war. What else would the Capitol do with their victory? Why _wouldn't_ they choose to take it out on us as long as they can?

And, unfortunately, "as long as they can" is likely to be a very, very long time. Maybe there are other districts where things are different, but here? Most people had the fight knocked out of them a year or two into the war. Sure, we trudged on to the bitter end, but, months before the war was officially over, it was clear that we had no chance. That all we were doing was prolonging the inevitable.

And we got pretty good at that – prolonging the end. Pretending we still had a chance. We still did our jobs, right up to the end. I did my part, too, right along with everyone else. I was never a soldier, don't get me wrong, but about a year into the war I signed on as a message runner, carrying instructions from one rebel camp to another – sometimes within the district, sometimes from district to district.

My father hated that I was putting my life on the line, but at least he understood. He always understood. He wanted the rebellion to succeed as badly as any of us did. He believed – right up until the day he was killed – that we were going to win. That the Capitol was going to be defeated and we would finally have peace.

He was wrong, of course, and he paid dearly for it. One night, I returned from District Three to find a pair of Peacekeepers standing over my dad's body. They had shot him – right there in our house. I ran, of course, but they saw me first. They could have shot me.

Why they didn't, I'm still not entirely sure. Maybe they didn't see a rebel. Maybe they simply saw a child shocked by his father's death. Maybe they didn't know that I'd been just as involved as he had. Or maybe they simply couldn't bring themselves to condemn a child to death.

Which makes them about ten times more humane than anyone who had anything to do with the decision to start these Games. Not that I say so out loud. I'm not stupid. No one says anything like that anymore. We've learned our lesson. We've grown up.

Some of us more literally than others. I had to grow up pretty fast, I suppose, after my dad's death. Not that I'm looking for pity. If I wanted someone to pity me, I could go back and live with Rana, that traitor who calls herself my mother. But she lost any right to that name when she abandoned me and my father during the war. She ran away, choosing to keep herself safe rather than stay with her family. She still wants me to come home, but I'd rather starve on the streets than live with her.

Not that I'm starving on the streets. No, sir. I've got a job in the factory. I pay my own rent. I can take care of myself. Sure, I'm only sixteen, but I guess that's what happens when you grow up in a war zone. You grow up.

And you can see it on the others' faces as we fill the square. The children who don't look like children anymore. Even the youngest ones, the twelve and thirteen year olds, don't look as young as you'd expect. They're smaller, yes, but their faces are harder, their eyes older.

Not that you see their eyes much. Most of them are watching the ground. They don't want to look up at the man onstage. The man who introduces himself as Isaac Graves and explains that he's our escort. Which is apparently a fancy way of saying that he's going to be the one to pick the two tributes. And then he's going to take them to the Capitol to die.

That should upset them. Us. All of us. But, instead, we take it meekly like the lost causes we are, waiting quietly as he steps up to the first bowl and draws a slip of paper. Carefully, he unfolds it and reads the name. "Crescent Nerine!"

A laugh erupts from somewhere in the crowd, shattering the silence. A quick, short laugh – more like a scoff. But when only silence follows, the laughter dies. This isn't a joke. There's a sudden burst of movement as a girl steps out of the crowd, shoving a couple people out of the way. Not because she _wants_ to get to the stage, clearly, but because she's furious. And taking it out on a couple people standing beside her is a safer choice than taking it out on the man onstage or the Peacekeepers nearby.

Once she makes it through the crowd, she storms up to the stage, glaring, giving the last stair a kick before taking her place beside Isaac. Not that I blame her – not one bit. I'd be angry, too, I suppose, if I'd just been chosen for a death match.

Isaac, however, doesn't budge. Doesn't seem fazed at all. Maybe this is exactly what he was expecting. Maybe he'd be an idiot to expect anything different. So instead of reacting to Crescent's attitude, he simply steps up to the second bowl, reaches in, and draws another piece of paper. "Icho Thesik!"

Huh. You'd think I'd be angry. That I'd want to storm to the stage, too. And maybe I should. But I don't. I simply make my way through the crowd, keeping my eyes down. Yeah, this sucks. But it's not as if it's any worse than the other shit that's happened to me in the last three years. Maybe I shouldn't have been expecting anything else.

It's not as if my life here is good. Not as if there's anyone who's really going to miss me – anyone I haven't already shut out of my life. Not that I _want_ to be in their stupid Games, but now that I don't have a choice … well, maybe it's not that big a deal. Maybe it's just one more awful thing to get through. And, if not, then it'll be the last awful thing. And maybe it doesn't even matter which of those is the case.

* * *

 **Crescent Nerine, 17  
** **District Five**

This sucks. There's no nice way to say it, and no point in pretending otherwise. The Capitol can pretend all they want. They can pretend it's a game, pretend it's an honor, pretend whatever they want. They just want an excuse to kill people. And no one in the districts is going to have the guts to stand up and say that it's wrong.

Not that I expected them to. Not that I would have, if someone else had been chosen. Not that they'd have a chance of changing anything, even if someone did have the guts to say no. To say that it isn't fair. No, they'd be crushed in an instant, gunned down before we'd even left the square. The Peacekeepers don't waste time.

Apparently, they don't waste space, either, because both Icho and I are led to the same room in the Justice Building. My "parents" enter the room a moment later, along with my "sister" Bella and a boy who's apparently here to see Icho. Liana throws her arms around me, crying, but it all feels wrong. It's all felt wrong, ever since I discovered the truth. Ever since they admitted that it's all been a lie – that I'm not really theirs. And they aren't really mine.

But that doesn't stop them from crying. And maybe I should say something. Maybe I should forgive them. This may be the last time I see them, after all. Maybe I shouldn't leave them like this. Maybe our last memory together should be a good one. Or at least a peaceful one.

But they don't deserve it. They lied to me my entire life. The fact that I might die doesn't magically erase the lies, the secrets. The fact that this sucks doesn't make the rest of my life any better. These people that pretended to be my family – why should I care about making them feel better?

Especially when I have bigger things to worry about. Like how I'm going to survive these stupid Games. Because as bad as this is, _someone_ is coming out of it. Why shouldn't it be me? Why should I just roll over and die like the Capitol expects us to? Someone is going to win. Someone smart enough, or determined enough, or maybe just plain angry enough.

Finally, the three of them – Liana, Nautilus, and Bella – take a hint and leave. Icho's friend doesn't linger long, either. Maybe he recognizes the same thing I do – that there's not much for them to say. Not much for them to do. Either one of us is going to come home, or we won't. Crying about it isn't going to change that.

Neither is pacing the room and punching the wall, of course, but at least that feels good. Just like it feels good when I pick up the chair I've been sitting on and slam it into the wall, instead. Icho is staring, but I don't care. Why should I care what he thinks? It's not as if we actually know each other. Not as if we're going to know each other very long. Why should I worry about what he thinks of me?

Besides, he's probably just as angry. It's not like he wants to be here, either. Not like either of us asked for this, or did anything to deserve it. The chair hits the wall again, and I smile a little. It feels good to be doing _something_ , even if I'm not accomplishing anything except breaking a flimsy little chair.

After a moment Icho nods a little, picks up his own chair, and flings it at the wall. I burst out laughing, and so does he. I swing again. And again. After a few more swings, both of our chairs are smashed to pieces, and we're on the floor laughing. It feels so strange, but, on the other hand, it feels _good_.

After a moment, however, the door is flung in, and Peacekeepers storm in – maybe trying to make sure we haven't started trying to kill each other already. Instead, we're lying in a pile of chair parts, giggling. What am I doing? I'm not supposed to be laughing. I'm supposed to be planning my next move. Preparing myself to kill. Not … having fun.

But maybe … well, why not? If this is going to suck, then maybe anything we can do to make it suck a little less is a good thing. Maybe any sort of enjoyment we can get it out of it is our right. Maybe we deserve a little bit of happiness.

It's short-lived, though. One of the Peacekeepers grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet. Apparently, the time for saying goodbye is over. Icho and I are dragged out the door, out of the Justice Building, and towards a train that's waiting at the station nearby. A small crowd has gathered to watch. _Shit._ I didn't realize there were going to be people. I'm still grinning like an idiot, and I'm a mess from our little bout with the chairs.

But maybe … well, maybe that's a good thing. There are people watching us, but there are also cameras. And if we look like we're enjoying ourselves – like maybe we even _want_ to be here – then maybe the people watching will think twice about us. Or at least notice us. And maybe anything we can do to get them to notice is a good thing.

So I keep smiling – at least until we're on the train. Once we're aboard, both of us collapse onto the couches, still chuckling a little bit. The couches are comfortable – much more comfortable than anything in District Six. Not that we were ever the poorest people in the district. We've always had enough to eat and a roof over our heads.

But this … this sort of luxury, even the richest people in District Six could only dream of. The couches are so comfortable, it's a moment before I even notice the food. Plates and plates of food stacked on a nearby table. Icho is staring, too, dumbfounded. Maybe he assumed the same thing I had – that, since they're about to force us to fight to the death, they won't really think twice about how we're treated in the meantime.

Apparently, I was wrong. Icho and I race to the table and immediately begin stuffing our faces. Suddenly, none of it matters. The fighting, the fear, the anger, the thought that we might die – it all pales in comparison to the luxury in front of us.

And if this is how they're treating us now, then maybe they weren't lying about the Victor being showered in riches. Maybe they really do plan to provide their Victor with everything they could want for the rest of their lives. And if that's the case, then that's even more reason to win.

Not that we really needed any reason beyond the fact that we want to live. But, still, the thought that _this_ will be what's waiting for whoever comes back … maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe I can win. And if it means a chance at a life like this, maybe I'm even willing to kill.

* * *

 **And that's that for the reapings. Just as we're finally getting the hang of it, too.**

 **Mini bios will be going up on the blog once we're finished with them. Nothing too extensive - just enough to keep track of which tribute is which, now that we've through all the reapings. We decided against adding strengths and weaknesses to the blog because some people put one or two, while other people put five or six of each. Next time we'll specify a minimum number on the tribute form, and then it might end up on the blog.**

 **Also, we've got a new poll up, asking which tributes are your favorites. Please vote. No, this won't determine the Victor, but it certainly isn't going to hurt their chances. Yes, you may vote for your own - we don't exactly have a way to stop you, so telling you not to would be a bit pointless - but please don't _just_ vote for your own tribute(s). If they're the only one(s) you like, we're clearly doing something wrong.**

 **And that's it. Next up will be the train rides.**


	10. A Language I Didn't Understand

**A Language I Didn't Understand**

" _His face was like the page of a book written in a language I didn't understand, but he wasn't mindless, he had his reasons."_

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

Crescent and I are almost halfway through a pie by the time Isaac joins us. He smiles a little as he takes a seat. "Glad to see you're enjoying yourselves. After the reaping, you certainly deserve it."

That seems like an odd way for a Capitolite to start a conversation, but I'm too busy stuffing my face to care. Crescent isn't, though. "You mean the reaping where _you_ picked us to fight to the death?"

Isaac nods a little. "I can see why you might be a bit … resentful. But rest assured, I have nothing against you in particular. In fact, in a way, I envy you."

I almost choke on my pie as I try not to laugh. "Us. You're jealous of _us_."

Isaac helps himself to a piece of pie. "You're part of history now – the two of you – no matter how this turns out. People will remember your names forever. District Five's first two tributes. It's a great honor."

I take a long drink of milk. Fresh milk. How did they get _fresh_ milk? "Well, I'd trade that 'great honor' for a nice, long life."

Isaac leans back in his chair. "Would you? Would you really? Has your life really been so wonderful up to this point?"

I shake my head. "You don't know anything about me – or what my life's been like."

"No. No, I don't. But I can hazard a guess from your clothes. Your shoes. Your eyes. Your life hasn't been an easy one, and the Games will be no easier, but the life that awaits you should you win – Isn't that worth the chance?"

Crescent is nodding along with him, as if she agrees. Is she really buying this? Does she actually think that either of us has a real chance at the life he's offering?

Maybe. Maybe she does. Maybe she's crazy enough, or gullible enough, or desperate enough to believe that we actually have a chance. But it's going to take a lot more than blind belief if either of us is going to have a shot at winning.

Either of us. But I don't want it to be 'either of us.' I want it to be me. Maybe my life hasn't been much, but that doesn't mean I want to die. Just because I don't have anyone waiting for me to come back doesn't mean I don't want to live.

* * *

 **Memphis Ash, 18  
** **District Four**

"I can't figure out whether you're just an idiot or whether you want to die." I cringe a little as I open my eyes. I'm in some sort of room – dark and cramped and cold. My whole body aches, and my shoulder stings where the Peacekeepers' needle jabbed me. My wrists and ankles are chained, the chains fastened to the wall behind me. It takes me a moment to remember why. I attacked Bliss. The Peacekeepers came. I…

"Where am I?" My voice is groggy and hoarse. The woman near the door takes a step closer. She looks familiar. The woman from the reaping – our escort. What was her name? Sydney? Serena?

"You're on a train – on your way to the Capitol," the woman answers. "You volunteered for a fight to the death and then tried to strangle your district partner. So which one is it – are you an idiot, or are you just looking for a good way to die?"

"Neither." I want to live as much as anyone else. But if the Capitol is determined to see me dead, then I might as well make them pay for it along the way. Like it or not, I _am_ going to die – that much was certain the moment I volunteered. But I don't have to go down easily. I don't have to go quietly.

The woman at the door shakes her head. "If you want to live, you've got a strange way of showing it. Now, I can help you – but not if you're going to keep attacking anything that moves. If I let you out of here, are you going to behave – or not?"

I nod, trying to look as meek as I can. As submissive as she wants me to act. Satisfied, the woman crosses the room, a key in her hand. She quickly unfastens my chains, then takes a step back.

But she doesn't step back quickly enough. Immediately, I spring up. Without thinking, she steps between me and the door. Stupid. I would have let her live, but now … my hands quickly find her throat. No hesitation this time. No time to make it slow. Instead of choking her, I quickly snap her neck, then shove her body out of the way as I race for the door.

The door swings open, but, to my surprise, there's nowhere to run. Of course. She said we were on a train. I glance around frantically, looking for the exit. But no sooner do I see it than Peacekeepers burst through, their weapons ready.

Some sort of dart finds my neck. Pain rushes through my body as I sink to the ground again. There's no way out. No escape. But, if nothing else, I've already made sure it's worth it. I've already made my mark on these Games. And I've already outlived one of my real enemies.

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

"It's a real shame you two are going to end up being enemies in the arena," Gloria croons as Maverick and I join her at the table. "You two are just so perfect together. Both young, both volunteers, both eager to join in the fray. Here, try the cupcakes. They're delicious."

They do look rather good. I quickly oblige, while Maverick takes three, scarfing down one after another until I'm sure he's going to be sick. I hope he didn't volunteer just because he thought he'd get a few free meals out of it. He certainly looks like he could use a good meal, but even this food isn't worth risking your life for.

Maybe I shouldn't care. I shouldn't care why he volunteered. It's his own life to risk, just like mine. I wouldn't want him scrutinizing my reasons.

"So, why did you volunteer?" Gloria asks. Of course. Like I'm going to tell her. Like I'm going to tell a Capitolite that I wanted to show that I'm not afraid of them. That the districts aren't afraid of them. Like I'm going to spill my life story to a rainbow-haired idiot just because she asked nicely. I help myself to another cupcake, trying to pretend I didn't hear her.

When she fails to get an answer from me, she turns to Maverick, instead. "Well, then, what about you, dear? What made you want to volunteer?"

Maverick freezes for a moment, then nods towards me. "She did. I … I don't know. I want this – like her. Like this."

For a moment, I simply sit there, staring. What is he saying? He volunteered because I did? He was following my example? It makes a little too much sense. When I volunteered, after all, Gloria wasn't even sure if it was allowed. But once she decided that _I_ could…

Once that door was opened, then anyone could volunteer. Even a little kid like Maverick. Suddenly, the cupcakes in front of me don't taste quite as good. My stomach starts getting a little queasy – whether from the food or from the realization, I'm not sure. This boy – this _child_ – is only sitting here because I volunteered first. Because I showed him it was possible.

That isn't what I meant. I meant to be an example, yes, but not like this. This isn't what I intended at all, but it's too late now. The damage is done. If Maverick dies – _when_ he dies – it'll be my fault, as surely as if I took a knife and stabbed him right now. And I know I volunteered for this – for a fight to the death – but I don't know if I can live with that.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

I don't know how they can live with themselves. That's the only thing that comes to my mind as Peter and I explore the train. The rooms seem endless. We've already found new outfits, new food, and more comfortable beds than I could ever have imagined. Is this the sort of luxury that people in the Capitol enjoy every day? No wonder they don't want to risk giving that up.

Not that the rebellion was ever about making the Capitol _give up_ their luxuries. Not really. We just wanted an equal share. The food we grow in District Nine – it supplies all of Panem. So shouldn't we get a share in the benefits? It seems so simple, so straightforward. But living around this sort of luxury day after day … maybe the people in the Capitol start to think they deserve it. That that's just the way things are – the way things should be.

" _There_ you are!" Phoenix's voice startles both of us. Peter and I whirl around immediately. "I've been looking all over the train for you. Thought you might have jumped off."

I can feel myself blushing a little. To be honest, the thought did occur to me. But all the doors to the outside are locked. You can move around freely inside the train, but you can't get out.

Not that jumping from a moving train would have been a good idea, anyway. I don't know how fast we're going, but probably fast enough to be dangerous. Deadly, even. And I'm not ready to die – not as long as I have a chance left. And maybe I do. But Peter…

The boy simply shrugs. "Nah. If we were going to jump, we'd at least wait until we got closer to the Capitol. Eat as much as we could beforehand – that sort of thing."

Phoenix can't help smiling at that. "You remind me of my brother."

"Your brother?" It never really occurred to me that she might have a family.

Phoenix simply nods. "Always the optimist. Trying to find the good in any sort of situation." She ruffles Peter's hair a little. "Not so different from myself, I suppose. Do you know why I chose District Nine?" Neither of us answers. I'd just assumed she'd gotten stuck with us. "I was offered District Two," she smiles. "But I turned them down. I didn't want to be somewhere that simply rode out the war. I wanted to be where there was something going on. Where the action was."

I cringe. There was certainly plenty of action in Nine – none of it good. "Did you see any action – during the war?" I ask.

Phonix nods. "More than some. Less than others. War is … not the glamorous thing that we like to pretend it is in the Capitol. But there is a certain … excitement about it – wouldn't you agree?"

Maybe. Maybe if we hadn't been on the losing side. Maybe if I'd been able to fight alongside my parents and brothers. Maybe if we'd brought down the Capitol – maybe that would have been exciting. But there's nothing exciting about losing.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

I can't help feeling like I've already lost. Ever since we boarded the train, Gardenia and Titus have been sitting at the table, deep in conversation. Part of me wants to join them, but part of me knows I wouldn't be welcome. If they wanted me to share in their conversation, they would have asked me a few hours ago.

Maybe that's for the better. Maybe the less I talk to her, the better. She's competition, after all – and deadly competition, at that. And if Titus is going to be helping her, then maybe it's best to stay away from him, too. Maybe if I just avoid everyone…

But avoiding _everyone_ isn't going to be possible. I sigh, leaning back against the arm of the couch, wishing I could sink right through it and out of the train. Wishing I could disappear. Or that the rest of this could disappear.

But it won't. And I won't. But, for a moment as I close my eyes, it feels like it might…

I'm not sure how long I've been asleep by the time they wake me. Titus and Gardenia ignore me as they sit down on a second couch, and Titus flips some sort of switch on the screen in front of us. "Let's have a look at the competition, shall we?"

My eyes open, but I stay lying down. If they think I'm asleep, maybe they'll keep talking. Sure enough, as the screen switches on and the words "District One" flash onscreen, they lean forward, completely ignoring me as a recording of the reapings begins to play.

District One has two volunteers, which comes as a bit of a surprise. Sure, District One was one of the most pro-Capitol districts during the war, but I didn't think even they would be excited about a fight to the death. The girl is about my age, while the boy is quite a bit younger.

Then our own reaping. I can see myself shaking as Titus calls my name. While Gardenia looks calm and confident, I come across as frightened. I clench my teeth. Of _course_ I'm frightened. What kind of idiot _wouldn't_ be? Why isn't she?

Once the reapings move past Districts One and Two, however, the fear becomes more evident. Several tributes try to run. Others break down in tears. I don't know whether to pity them or be grateful that the rest of my competition seems a bit more … human. There are a few more volunteers – a boy from Four and a girl from Seven – but, for the most part, the rest of the tributes seem just as afraid as they should be. Maybe even as afraid as me.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

I don't get what everyone's so afraid of. I mean, I get it, but I don't get dwelling on it, if you know what I mean. Sure, this is terrible. But focusing on how terrible it is isn't going to make it any better.

Horario's certainly not helping with that. When Maia suggested that we watch the tape of the reapings to get some idea of what our competition might be like, he was about as enthusiastic as a dried-up slug. And, sure, it's not like the reapings are going to give us a _perfect_ idea of who the other tributes are, but any information is better than nothing.

And the information we do get is somewhat encouraging, at least. I'd been assuming, like most people, that the Capitol would focus on trying to reap rebel soldiers. But only one or two of them look they might have actually fought in the war. Not bad odds.

Okay, they're still terrible odds. But not as bad as they _could_ be. And that's the main thing. It's not as if the others are going to be trained killers or anything. We're going into an arena with other tributes who – for the most part – seem to be just like us. In a way, that makes it a bit better. Doesn't it?

"Not really," Horario admits when I ask. "If anything … well, it sort of makes it worse."

Maia cocks her head, looking strangely like a bird as she does so. "How so?"

Horario hesitates a moment, as if trying to find the right words. "If they were all soldiers – if they were already used to the idea of killing and dying – well, it might be easier to kill them, because … because that's what they'd be expecting. But taking people like me and Paean who don't want to kill—"

"What makes you think I don't want to kill?" I ask with a smirk. I don't, of course, but the comment catches him off guard. He doesn't know any more about me than I know about him. He doesn't know what I did during the war. He doesn't know that my mother was a doctor and that the sum and total of what I did during the war was help her get supplies. For all he knows, I'm a cold-blooded killer. For all the audience knows, I want to be here.

Maia, of course, mistakes my remark for genuine enthusiasm. "That's the spirit!" she beams. "Let's watch it again – and, this time, look for someone who might be an easy target. Someone you might be able to take out early."

Horario gets up and makes his way back to the table, but I stay beside Maia as she switches the screen back on. Even if I'm not looking for easy targets, it might help to watch it again. I might catch something I missed the first time. And any sort of information about any of them could be useful.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I don't know what they think we'll be able to tell from just watching the reapings. As soon as Eve suggested watching them, Kennedy readily agreed, hungry for any sort of information about our competition. And, sure, I watched it with him, but it's not as if we really learned anything. Not as if you can tell anything about someone from just those few moments as their world is falling apart around them. Sure, most of them look scared. But that's normal.

It's the ones who _aren't_ scared – or who don't seem to be, at least – who seem odd to me. A girl from Seven who volunteers, and her district partner, a boy who refuses to let his friends volunteer. A pair of volunteers from One and a boy from Four. But even them … Who knows _why_ they volunteered. Maybe they had a good reason. Maybe not. In the end, there's no way to tell from just a few minutes on a screen.

Still, Kennedy is getting ready to watch the whole thing again. And I suppose it's his time to waste. I head for my room, instead, and Eve follows. "Had enough?"

I shrug. "It's been a busy day."

Our escort smiles warmly. "I suppose it has. And I wish I could say it's going to get easier. But you should rest now, if you can, because it's only going to get busier once we reach the Capitol. The Gamemakers have quite a few things planned for you before you even get to the arena."

I nod a little. Maybe she's trying to be kind, to give me as much information as possible, but there's nothing she can say that will actually help. Nothing that will actually prepare us for whatever's coming. So maybe this is one of those times when it's best to say nothing.

"I'm sorry," she says at last, quietly. "I wish… I wish I could help you."

I shake my head a little. "If really want to help us, then—"

"Then why am I here?" A sad smile crosses her face. "I'm a doctor, Neblina. Doctors don't stop being doctors when they realize their patient is dying. Even when there's nothing more they can do, they stay. They offer comfort. Try to help the patient come to terms with their death."

That makes some sense, at least. But realizing that a patient is dying is one thing. Purposely selecting a dying patient, on the other hand … Why is she really here? What does she really want?

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

Neither of them want anything to do with me. For the past few days, Carina and Leopold have spent as much time together as possible. Talking. Maybe planning. Pretty much ignoring me. The quiet twelve-year-old. The one who doesn't stand a chance. They haven't said that, of course, but I can see it whenever they look at me. Sometimes it's a look of pity. More often, it's simple dismissal. Leopold's decided to focus on the tribute who actually stands a chance. And Carina … well, she's too worried about trying to survive. She doesn't have time to worry about me, too.

Not that I expected her to. I had no reason to think she would want to help me. To protect me. She has her own life to worry about. And I have mine.

Suddenly, the train begins to slow. I glance out the window, and immediately take a step back. There are people. People standing in some sort of a train station. Watching us. Waiting for us. How long have they been standing there, waiting for the trains to arrive? Waiting to catch a glimpse of the tributes who are coming?

It might be amusing – flattering, even – if it weren't for the reason we're here. They aren't here to see _us_. They're here to watch us die. For all their words about honor and glory, that's the simple truth: twenty-three of us are going to die. And they're going to watch.

"Hurry up!" Leopold calls, beaming, as the train finally slows to a stop. "Come on! Come on! We don't have all day!" He gives me a shove in the direction of the door. As if the train is going to start moving again and we might lose our chance to get off.

Of course, it won't. This is the last stop. I take a deep breath and take a step towards the door. Then another. The sunlight is blinding as we step off the train, and the noise is even worse. Thousands upon thousands of voices – all shouting. All cheering. All eager to cheer us to our deaths.

Carina starts waving. Leopold is doing the same. But it's all I can do to walk in a straight line, to keep my legs moving as a wave of dizziness comes over me. I feel like one of the rats my parents keep in their lab. Like I'm trapped in a little glass cage, and someone is tapping on the glass. _Tap. Tap. Tap._

Finally, I can see a building in the distance. Past the crowd. I clench my fists tightly and take another step. Then a few more. At last, we're inside. Away from the people. The shouting. The spectacle.

But that doesn't mean we're safe. No, we've only been given a short rest. Soon, the crowds will be back. The lights. The cheering. Cheering as we run through our little maze, towards the terrible fate that awaits us at the end. I blink the tears from my eyes as Leopold leads us further into the building. Farther and farther from the crowd. But closer and closer to our deaths.

* * *

 **And there are our train rides. We split up the 24 tributes evenly between this chapter and the next two - which will be a prep team chapter and a chariot rides chapter. Each tribute will also get a POV during training, and those will be a bit longer. Then each tribute will get a POV during either private sessions, training scores, or interviews. Finally, each tribute will get a POV either after the interviews, the morning of the Games, or at the launch - for a total of twelve pre-Games chapters (including this one).**

 **That's the plan, at least. The plan is subject to change if we find another structure we like better.**


	11. Surprisingly Beautiful

**Surprisingly Beautiful**

" _I found it surprisingly beautiful - in a brutal, horribly uncomfortable sort of way."_

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

I'd almost forgotten what it feels like to be clean. When you live on the streets long enough, you pick up a layer of dirt and sweat and grime that – no matter how much you try, no matter how hard you scrub – just won't go away. Maybe because usually whatever you're scrubbing with is just as dirty as you are. But whatever the reason, you just sort of get used to being dirty.

I'd forgotten how good an actual bath feels. The Capitolites are giggling a little, and maybe that should bother me, but somehow it doesn't seem to matter. It's not as if I know them. Not as if they know me. In a few days, they'll never see me again. And soon after that, I'll either be a Victor – a hero – or I'll be dead.

And maybe the second one is what I should be focusing on, but right now, sitting cozily in this tub, it's just so easy to forget what we're actually doing here. What I volunteered for. And this – the food, the clothes, the hot water – it's already been more than enough to make it worth it. Even if I die in a few days, at least I can say that, for the last few days of my life, I _lived_.

And maybe that's all any of us can ask for. If there's one thing the war taught us – all of us – it's how incredibly short life is. So if we have even a chance at a life that would actually be worth living, we should take it. We _have_ to take it. Because how often do those chances come?

Once a year, I suppose – from now on, at least. One Hunger Games per year. And maybe I could have waited until next year. Or the year after. Maybe I _should_ have waited. But, even then, there are no guarantees. No way of knowing whether I'd even live long enough on the streets to volunteer next year.

And, in any case, it's too late now. Too late to back out. Too late to do anything but accept what I volunteered for and try my best to prove it wasn't an incredibly stupid idea.

At least the Capitolites swarming around me don't seem to think it was a mistake. Quite the opposite. From what I've been able to make out, they're thrilled to be working with someone from District One. A district with _two_ volunteers. Apparently, they think we're something pretty special. I just hope we can live up to that.

Or, at least, I hope _I_ can live up to that. There is no 'we.' Both Clarisse and I volunteered, but only one of us can come out of this alive. Only one of us can win. Only one of us can live up to our district's expectations. And I mean for it to be me.

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

This is all a bit too familiar for my tastes. The Capitolites who are fussing over my hair, my skin, my nails – they're the kind of people I've tried to avoid. People who only care about how things _appear_ , not how they really are. People who want to pretend that everything is okay even when the world is falling apart.

Which is how we ended up here in the first place. How we ended up with a rebellion. Right up until the day the districts rebelled, the Capitol was blind. Convinced that as long as the districts were still producing our quota of food and lumber and coal, then everything was fine. That there was no trouble. That a few Peacekeepers would be enough to keep the districts in line.

And the rebellion – maybe they were just as blind, at the start. They thought the war would be quick. That because of their sheer numbers, the Capitol would be forced to listen to them. To accept their terms. They never imagined a lengthy war. Neither side did. Both were convinced it would be over quickly, one way or the other.

But as the war dragged on, we all learned. The Capitol learned that the districts couldn't be subdued so easily. And the rebellion … well, they learned that numbers weren't everything. That it wasn't enough to simply have the support of the masses if they didn't have access to the same supplies, the same weapons, the same resources as the Capitol. We all came out of the war a little less blind.

But now, it seems, the Capitol wants to go back to the way things were. To pretend that nothing has changed. To go back to their happy, luxurious lives as if we didn't just emerge from a three-year war. A war that, for a little while, at least, it looked like they might lose.

But you would never know it from watching these three. Happy, giggling, and completely oblivious. Is it an act? Or did they somehow manage to make it through the war without realizing what was going on? Do they have any idea just how bad things got out there?

Maybe not. And there's a part of me that envies their blissful ignorance. A part of me that might actually enjoy this if I didn't know what was coming. If I didn't know that, in just a few short days, all of this will be gone. No more lights, no more cameras, no more make-up and dresses and colors.

They can pretend. They can dress it up and call it a festival and pretend that it's a game. And maybe they can fool the people in the Capitol. Maybe here, they can enjoy it. But we never will. The districts never will. This is a punishment – no more. And they'll never be able to fool us again.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

It's all I can do not to flinch every time they come near me. It's silly, maybe. I know they're not going to hurt me. Not yet. Not until the Games. And, even then, they won't be the ones hurting me – these strange, eager people with hair that's too bright and eyes that can't seem to stay still for more than a few seconds. They're so different, and yet … not different in the way I expected.

And not at all like the Capitolites we saw during the war. The soldiers, the Peacekeepers, the officers – they always seemed so formal. So stiff. These people are so … so _alive_. It's hard to believe they come from the same place.

I'm still fighting the urge to run as one of them runs her hand through my hair. The door isn't that far away. Maybe I could make it. Would they really be able to stop me? There are three of them, but I could probably get there before they had a chance to react. But then what? Is there a guard outside the door? What would they do if I tried to run?

No. No, that wouldn't help. Even if I could make it out the door – even if I could make it out of the building – where would I go? I would have no way to get out of the Capitol. No way to escape back to District Ten. And it wouldn't be hard for them to find me. Every one of them saw my face during the reaping. There would be nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

"Are you cold, dear?" One of them drapes a blanket around my shoulders. I nod, pretending to be grateful. Better for them to think that I'm shaking from the cold than from fear. And it _is_ a bit chilly in here, now that I think about it. Yes. Yes, that must be it. It's just cold.

Who am I kidding? Fine, I'm afraid. Of course I'm afraid. Most of us are afraid, and the ones who aren't – well, they must be nuts. We're going to be fighting to the death. Anyone in the arena who _isn't_ afraid of dying – they're the ones who should be questioning their sanity.

"I'm afraid." It feels good, strangely enough, to say it out loud. The Capitolites stare at me, as if I've just said something in another language. But it feels good to admit it. I'm scared. And maybe there's no shame in that. It doesn't mean I can't fight. Doesn't mean I won't fight, if it comes to that.

And, if anything, maybe it means I'll fight harder. Fight better. Maybe you can't fight for your life unless you're afraid of losing it. Maybe that fear will actually be the thing that keeps me alive in the arena. Maybe. Maybe I really do have a chance.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

It almost feels good to have someone pay so much attention to me. For most of the train rides, I might as well have been invisible. Grant spent most of his time avoiding both of us, and Elijah … well, I guess I can't really blame him for trying to ignore me. He's competition, after all. And six years older. It's not as if we'd have much in common.

Not that I have any more in common with the people around me now – a small group of strangely-dressed Capitolites flitting about and fidgeting with my hair, my skin, my clothes. It all seems a bit strange. Maybe I'm just not used to being noticed anymore. No one really notices a little girl from the Seam.

And sometimes that's a good thing – being able to blend in with a crowd. Most of the time, being noticed – by the Peacekeepers, by the Capitol – isn't such a good thing. And certainly being chosen for a fight to the death isn't a good thing. But even I have to admit they're treating us pretty well.

Which is all part of the lie, I guess. The lie that this is an honor. That we're here to fight for the glory of our districts, not for their entertainment. That we're willing participants in a pageant of courage, not a bunch of frightened little kids who've never held a weapon in our lives.

At least, most of us probably haven't. Elijah and I managed to find a tape of the other reapings, and most of the tributes don't look any more prepared than us. Most of them, though, are older than me. There were only a few others who were even close to my age. And that was disheartening enough, even if most of the others looked just as frightened.

The Capitolites, though, don't seem to understand why I'm so scared. They're more concerned with whether my dress is straight, whether my hair is perfect, what colors they're going to put on my face. In any other circumstances, it might be funny.

Of course, in any other circumstances, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be this clean. This pretty. And once they bring me a small mirror, I have to admit, I _do_ look pretty. It feels good to be clean, to be well-dressed, to look good for once.

But I would trade it all to be safe again. To be with my family again. The pretty clothes and the delicious food – it doesn't make up for what they're about to do. What they're about to force _us_ to do. It doesn't erase the fact that, in a few short days, the food and the clothes and the spectacle will all be gone, and the twenty-four of us will be trying to kill each other.

Nothing can erase that. But maybe – _maybe_ – it's okay to ignore it for a little while. Maybe it's wrong, but can't I let myself enjoy it a little – just for a moment? I finally manage a small smile as they put the finishing touches on my hair. Yes. Yes, I can enjoy it. It's my life, after all, that's at risk. And if I can enjoy myself anyway – even for a moment or two – that maybe that's its own small victory. And maybe that's enough.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

They keep smiling at me – the Capitolites who are wandering in and out of the room, fixing my hair, my dress, my makeup. They keep grinning, telling me how lucky I am, how thrilled they are that someone in District Seven actually _volunteered._ They're so excited, maybe it should be contagious. But how can they expect me to be happy?

Clearly, they have no idea _why_ I volunteered. If they knew – if they really knew – what had brought me here, what happened to my family, what the Capitol did … then what? What would they think? Would they feel sorry for me – for my family? Or would they say that we rebels got exactly what we deserved?

Tears come to my eyes once more – tears that the Capitolites dismiss as a reaction to whatever they've lathered all over my face. But it's not. How can I even pretend to enjoy myself? I'm sitting here warm and cozy and pampered, while my family…

Are they dead? Could fate really be that merciful? Or are they still alive, lingering in agony and despair, waiting for death to claim them? My stomach churns at the thought. I should be there with them. I should be dying alongside them, not sitting here watching a pair of blue-haired idiots fix my frilly dress.

 _Maybe you'd rather be dead right now._ General Tyrone's words echo in my mind as the images come flooding back. It's not that I _want_ to die. Hell, if I _wanted_ to die, I could have turned myself in to the Peacekeepers weeks ago – or done the job myself. But, right now, I can't honestly say that I want to live, either. If I ever make it back to District Seven, my family will be gone.

Gone. Such a simple word. A deceptive word. Because they won't just be 'gone.' They'll be dead. And they'll be dead because Leo and I couldn't mind our own business. Couldn't leave well enough – or even not well enough – alone. He's paying the price for our discontent. And there's a part of me that wonders if I should be paying it, too. If maybe I deserve to be hanging there alongside him. Not because of the actions we took against the Capitol, but because of what I did to them - to my family.

I close my eyes, clenching my teeth tightly, trying to block out the memories. But they're still too fresh. They're still there every time I close my eyes – struggling, pleading, begging for their lives. They're still there, bound and nailed helplessly to their crosses, left to die in agony while passer-bys try to look the other way. They're still there, in my mind, slowly dying. And maybe they always will be.

* * *

 **Crescent Nerine, 17  
** **District Five**

It takes a while before they give up. For a while, they chase me around the room, trying to get me to sit still while they fix my hair. My dress. My shoes. But a few kicks and nail marks later, they've given up. After a while, they storm out of the room, leaving me to prepare on my own.

Good. It'll turn out better that way. Those three, with their bug-eyed, bright-haired looks – they wanted to make me look like one of them. Who knows what the might have done, if I'd let them. If they're going to parade us out there for all the Capitol to see, then I'm going to look the way _I_ want to look.

Finally, I pick up a brush from where I knocked it onto the floor. It doesn't take me long to fix my hair. Once that's done, I turn my attention to my dress. It's a bit wrinkled now, but that doesn't matter. Maybe that's even a good thing. These silly Capitolites – Do they really think that we're going to go into the arena, fight each other to the death, and come out still looking like this? No. No, there will be blood. There will be dirt and sweat and gore. That's what we'll look like then, so what's the point in looking pretty now?

The point, of course, is so that they can pretend. If _they_ can enjoy it, then they can pretend that we do, too. I shake my head, trying to smooth out my dress. Will they even enjoy it, once we're fighting each other in the arena? Or will the people in the Capitol – the ones who didn't see the war close-up – be so disgusted that they'll turn off their screens and refuse to watch?

A silly idea, maybe. They'll probably enjoy it – for a little while, at least. There are probably enough of them who think we deserve it. Enough of them who are convinced that we're all rebels – all of us from the districts. Most of us weren't, of course. Most of us were secretly hoping the rebellion might succeed, but weren't willing to take the risk of doing our part.

Does that make us innocent? Maybe. Maybe I shouldn't be here at all. Maybe none of us should be here. But we are. We're here because they can't let go of their bloodlust. We're here because they need someone to blame. Someone to punish. And maybe there's no way to stop them, but I'm sure as hell not going to pretend to enjoy it.

Some of them probably will. Maybe some of the tributes will play along. Pretend to enjoy the Capitol's little game. And maybe that would be smart. Maybe that will end up helping them. But I can't. I just can't go to what's probably my death and pretend to be enjoying it. If they're going to kill me, then they can damn well know that I blame them for it. That I will always blame them for it.

* * *

 **Aldous Clement, 17  
** **District Eleven**

I keep waiting for it to sink in. For the other shoe to drop. For my mind to catch up with my body and realize that this is real. That I'm in the Capitol. That I'm going to die. I keep waiting for the moment when I'll finally break down and the fear will come rushing at me like it did on the day I lost my arm.

But it hasn't happened. It didn't happen on the train, while I spent most of the ride trying to comfort Felicity. It didn't happen when we left the train and saw the crowds of people who have gathered to watch us die. It didn't happen when I was led to this room and told to wait, told that people would come to get me ready for the parade.

That's what they called it. A parade. As if this is something fun. Something we're supposed to be enjoying. I know I should hate it. I should be upset that they're making our deaths a joke, a game. But it's hard to be upset at the two Capitolites who finally enter the room, all wide-eyed and smiling, as if they've never seen someone from the districts before. Maybe they haven't.

One of them helps me undress and tells me to lie down, which I do without question. The pair of them proceed to sponge me down with warm, clean water. I close my eyes, almost surprised that it feels so … good. Maybe it shouldn't. Maybe it should be awkward and strange. But three years of living in a field hospital have washed away any squeamishness I might have once had, any shame I might have felt at the sight of a naked body.

I can't help but flinch, though, when they reach my leg. Not because it's uncomfortable, but because of the pain. The Peacekeepers took my cane – they said it could be used as a weapon – so I spent most of the train ride hobbling around, trying to stay off my feet as much as possible. "I'm sorry," the woman apologizes, running her fingers lightly along my scars. "What … what happened?"

I open my eyes to find her staring at my leg while her partner cleans the stump of my arm. I sit up a little. "I was running an errand for the rebels when I stepped on a mine and … well, no more errand-running." The man's eyes grow wider – whether from the realization that I was working with the rebels or the fact that I'm making light of losing a limb, I'm not sure.

"Does it hurt?" the woman asks.

"Not usually," I lie. "It's just sort of … useless."

She whispers something to the man. Something that includes the word 'Games.' They've put it together – my injury, my limp … my chances. The woman makes her way to my other side and takes my hand. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It's all right." I'm surprised to find that I mean it. That I'm even smiling. I could have died three years ago. Every moment since then has been a gift, and I'm not going to waste it feeling sorry for myself. "It's all right … you know, I didn't catch your name."

"Antonia. And this is my brother Antoninus."

Easy enough to remember. I squeeze her hand gently. "Well, then, Antonia, I'm glad I met you. Both of you." And, strange as it is, I _am_ glad I met them. They're kind – gentle, even – as they help me dress. Antoninus lets me lean on him a little as we make our way out the door. It's a little thing, maybe. A little kindness. A little humanity. But, for a moment, that's enough.

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

There's a part of me that's almost enjoying this. Okay, more than a part. Sure, I don't want to be here – any more than any of us want to be here – but if I _have_ to be here, well, I might as well have a little fun with it.

So when one of the Capitolites fussing over me works up the courage to ask what I did during the war, I have an answer ready immediately. I glance around, as if anyone might be listening, and whisper softly, "I was a spy."

Their eyes immediately grow wide with anticipation, waiting for more. I let the lie hang in the air for a moment. Finally, one of them asks the obvious question. "For which side?"

"Both," I reply casually, as if it should have been obvious. "No one ever suspected me. Who would? I'm just a little kid. I was ten when I first infiltrated the rebels. They thought I was just another orphan, hanging around in the hopes of a free meal. One of the officers took me in, and, well … it got better from there."

The lady with the blue hair sets down her comb as I continue. "It wasn't long before they started trusting me with messages – messages meant for other rebel factions around the district. I was the perfect choice, after all – no one would suspect a ten-year-old boy. So I ran messages right through enemy lines for months without getting caught. But then, one day, I _did_ get caught."

All three of them gasp. "What did you do?" asks the man with pink hair.

I shrug. "I pretended I _meant_ to get caught. Pretended I was a spy for _them_ , bringing them information from the rebel forces – and handed over my message. It wasn't much – just a list of supplies – but it was enough to earn their trust. They sent me back to the rebel camp, and I promised to bring them more information as soon as I could."

"And did you?"

"Of course – but I managed to convince them that, in order for the rebels not to get suspicious, I needed to bring _them_ a bit of information every now and then. So they gave me a few messages to bring – a little bit of information. Not enough to really hurt them, but enough for the rebels to believe me. And it worked. Three years, and … well, I'm still here."

All three of them begin to clap. It's not true, of course – except for the fact that I'm only here, only still alive, because of my wits. That part is true. And that's what make the best lies, in the end – a little grain of truth at the center.

By the time Phoenix comes to collect me, the Capitolites have completely forgotten they were supposed to be getting me ready. My hair is still a mess. My suit is a bit wrinkled. But none of that seems to matter. I'm smiling. They're smiling. And, for a few moments, we had fun. What more could I ask for?


	12. Don't Let Them See

**Don't Let Them See**

 _"Don't let them see your tears," he told me, "They're nasty little shits, and nasty little shits aren't worth crying over."_

* * *

 **Simon Galley, 18  
** **District Seven**

"Now, remember, try to smile. If you can't smile, at least try not to scowl. And if you have to scowl, scowl at the other tributes. Clear?"

I scowl at General Tyrone as he leads us to our chariot. Of course it's clear. I have to try to please them – these murdering crowds who have gathered just to watch us die. I have to pretend to enjoy it, if I'm going to have any chance of surviving it. Because it's what they expect. It's what they want to see. They want to see teenagers who enjoy the thought of their imminent death.

But the only thought I'm enjoying is the thought of finding out which of these tributes are Capitol-supporting traitors. The thought of slitting their throats once we're in the Games. Because that's what they expect. They expect the rebels and the Capitol loyalists to turn on each other. And why not? We were enemies during the war. Why should they expect anything else now?

And if what they want is to see us rebels and the loyalists at each other's throats … well, maybe that's the one thing I don't mind giving them. Even if it plays right into their game, I'm happy to kill a few more Capitol-supporters for them. And now that I think about it … maybe slitting their throats is too kind. Maybe they deserve exactly what the Capitol did to my family. Hell, maybe they deserve worse.

Not most of them, of course. Most of the tributes in the arena – they're either rebels, like me, or they're simply innocent bystanders. So many of them are children, I realize as I glance around at the other chariots, ready to make their way into the streets of the Capitol. A few chariots behind us is a little boy who can't be more than twelve or thirteen. Near the back of the line – District Eleven, maybe – a boy with no right arm wraps his left tightly around a little girl. The younger girl in the last chariot isn't so lucky; her district partner is ignoring her completely.

No, for Capitol-supporters, I'll likely have to look the other direction. Districts One and Two, which were quick to offer their support for the Capitol. Maybe even District Four, which had supporters on both sides. I give Silver's hand a squeeze and nod towards the front of the parade. "What do you think?"

She scans the tributes quickly. District One doesn't look all that intimidating, but District Two has two older tributes. Tributes who are dressed up like soldiers. I glance around. None of the other outfits are anything particularly fancy. They gave Silver a dark green dress, and me a matching green suit. Green for trees, I suppose.

But District Two – their tributes are wearing dark blue uniforms, with buttons down the front and stripes down the side. Just like soldiers. Capitol soldiers. And District Four – one of their tributes is missing, leaving the girl alone in the chariot. What happened to their other tribute? Did he somehow escape? Is he dead? I'd assumed they wouldn't kill any of us before we were in the arena. What could he have done?

Silver glances over at me in agreement. Assuming he's still alive, if he did something bad enough that the Capitol would leave him out of the parade, then he's definitely someone we want to meet.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

"They're looking at us." Vance fiddles with his jacket, still clearly nervous. I roll my eyes. We haven't even entered the Capitol yet. The crowds can't see us. So who's he so worried about?

Finally, he gets so fidgety, I can't help but ask. " _Who's_ looking at us?"

"District Seven," he whispers, and I finally look back. Sure enough, the pair from Seven are staring right at us.

I shrug. "Ignore them. They're just jealous." That's not what it is, of course. Those glares – they're not jealousy, even though we've clearly been put in a position of favor with our outfits. The Capitol has dressed us up like soldiers – maybe some sort of indication that District Two remained loyal during the rebellion.

But, whether intentionally or not, they've also marked us as a target for any rebels in the arena. And, from the look of things, that means District Seven. Which makes sense, I suppose. The girl was a volunteer, and the boy refused to let his friends step in for him. Maybe it makes sense that they're rebels. Maybe the girl's choice was an act of desperation. And the boy … maybe he was hoping that he would have a better chance in the arena than his friends.

He won't, of course. If there's one thing that should be clear from the Capitol's decision to hold these Games, it's that rebels won't make it out alive. Whether they know it or not, both of them are already doomed. It's only a matter of how they die, and when. And who kills them.

Who kills them. Are they expecting it to be me? Is that what they meant by dressing me up as one of their own, acknowledging that I was a soldier? Are they expecting me to do my part to rid the arena of rebels? Maybe. Maybe that's the part they're expecting me to play.

And maybe … well, maybe I don't mind playing it. If that's what it takes to keep me alive, then so be it. They're going to die, anyway – that much was decided at the reaping. So their deaths might as well serve a purpose. They might as well die in a way that will convince the Capitol that I'm worth bringing back. That I'm the Victor they want.

"Don't worry about them," I repeat, turning my back to District Seven. "They're not staring at you. They're staring at me."

Vance relaxes a little. Stupid. The Capitol put a target on our backs, and if he thinks it matters to the rebels that he wasn't _actually_ a soldier, then he clearly knows even less about war than I thought. The rebels aren't worried about extra casualties – never were. They'll be more than happy to take him down, too, if they have any inkling that he's a loyalist.

And I haven't gotten the impression that he's not. Then again, I haven't gotten much of an impression one way or the other from him. He seems to want to stay out of it. I guess he hasn't realized yet that staying out of it isn't an option. Remaining neutral isn't an option – not this time. Not if he wants to survive.

* * *

 **Bliss Loverly, 16  
** **District Four**

They don't bring Memphis out until just before the parade starts. He's got chains around his wrists and ankles, and he isn't dressed any differently than he was on the train. I flinch as they help him up into the chariot next to me, but he's clearly been sedated and is barely aware of what's going on. Still, they fasten his chains tightly and give me a nod. "If anything goes wrong, just give a yell and get out of the chariot. They won't be moving that quickly. He shouldn't wake up, but…"

 _But you never know_. Rebels are unpredictable. I nod a little, trying to look confident. Trying to look prepared. But the truth is, I'm not. How could I be? The one person who was supposed to be helping us, Sylvia, is dead. And I'm standing next to the monster who killed her.

Well, _I'm_ standing, at least. Memphis is sort of slumped over onto the front of the chariot. And maybe that would be funny, if the circumstances were a bit different. But I don't feel like laughing. Strangely enough, I don't feel like crying, either. I just feel so … so _alone_.

A few of the others are looking at me. Or maybe they're looking at him. The pair from Five, directly behind us. The boy from Three, right in front of us. The girl is trying to ignore us. But the girl from Two – she's not even trying to hide her stares. She's curious – and maybe I would be, too. Has word gotten around about what happened? Maybe. Or maybe I'm the only one who knows.

The boy next to her, on the other hand, is looking farther back – at the pair from Seven, a few chariots behind me. They're watching us, too. But instead of watching Memphis, they're watching me. District Seven. Them I remember from the reaping. The girl was a volunteer, and the boy…

The boy I recognize now. _Shit._ I hope I'm wrong, but there's a part of me that knows I'm not. The boy's a rebel – quite an accomplished rebel, if I remember correctly. And he's looking at me like … well, like he knows I'm a loyalist. And if they ever let Memphis loose, it won't take long for word to get around that that's exactly what I am.

So maybe it's time I start acting like it.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I give Memphis a shove. Already drugged and unaware, he slumps over onto the floor of the chariot. As the chariots start moving, I take a step closer. Then another. Finally, as we enter the streets, I summon up the courage to take a step up – on top of Memphis. There I stay, my hands raised high, already claiming a victory of sorts over my district partner.

The crowd erupts in cheers when they see what I've done. I can't help but grin back. If they want to see the rebels and the loyalists fighting each other, fine. That's one thing I don't mind giving them. And, considering the audience, any sort of show is likely to be an advantage for me.

It's certainly not an advantage for Memphis, who's too drugged to do anything but grumble a little in protest. I give him a kick, and he falls silent. The crowd roars even louder. If word got around about what Memphis did to Sylvia, then they're probably hungry for a little payback. What's wrong with letting them have it?

* * *

 **Horario Garcia, 15  
** **District Six**

Everyone is staring at District Four. The crowds are cheering. Even a few of the tributes from One, Two, and Three have turned around to see what's going on. All the focus seems to be on the girl in the chariot – and what she did to her district partner.

And maybe that's a good thing. As long as their attention is on her, they're not paying attention to me. Which means they won't be watching to see how afraid I am. How badly I'm trembling. How much I want to disappear from the chariot. How desperately I want to just run and hide.

But there's nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I could duck down inside the chariot, I suppose. Maybe no one would even notice. But it wouldn't do any good, in the end. It would hide me for a few minutes, but, once the parade is over, I'd still be in the same mess. I'd still be on my way to a fight to the death.

Still, at least they're not watching me, which is perfectly fine by me. But Paean doesn't seem too thrilled to have everyone's attention on District Four. She's fidgeting with her dark grey dress, decidedly less colorful and fun than some of the other chariots.

And maybe that's the picture they're trying to paint – that some of the districts are more interesting than the others. And as far as District Six goes … well, it's hard to argue with that. There's not a whole lot that's interesting about District Six. We aren't exciting or flamboyant or rich. We're just … here. We just survive.

But, most of the time, survival is enough for us. And usually it's good not to have the Capitol's full attention. Because districts that have the Capitol's full attention don't seem to like it too much in the end.

Suddenly, Paean turns to me. "Hit me," she whispers.

"What?"

"I mean, don't _actually_ hit me. But pretend to hit me. Pretend to start a fight."

"Why?"

"So they'll pay attention to us," she shrugs, as if it's obvious.

I shake my head and turn back to the front of the parade. But, before I know what's happened, Paean tackles me. Pretends to punch me. I pretend to punch back. What is she _doing?_ One of the things they told us on the train was not to fight before we get to the arena, at least. Has she lost her mind?

Maybe. Maybe it's the drugs – or the lack of them. Maybe she's hoping no one's noticed, but she's shaking. Her skin has started to turn an odd shade of yellow around her eyes and mouth. She's clearly going through withdrawal – from what, I'm not sure, but maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe she's already starting to lose her mind.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

They're already starting to lose their minds. Already starting to turn on each other. Already starting to give the Capitol exactly what they want.

I glance over at Colt, grateful that he, at least, hasn't decided to turn on me. At the moment, he looks more likely to try to bolt out of the chariot and down the streets than to turn and attack. And maybe that's good. I'd rather have a district partner who's reasonably afraid of what's about to happen than someone who wants to kill me.

Which already puts us a step ahead of a couple of districts. The pair from Four clearly aren't on good terms. The tributes from Six are brawling in their chariot. I shake my head. This is exactly what the Capitol wants – for us to turn on each other. If we start to give in to that, then we're truly lost.

Glancing around the outer districts, on the other hand, gives me some hope. In the chariot in front of us, the girl from Nine has her arm around the younger boy, who's waving eagerly at the crowds. Behind us, the boy from Eleven is holding his younger district partner close with his good arm, leaning on her a little for support. And she, in turn, has her arms wrapped around him.

I nod and take Colt's hand, squeezing it firmly. He squeezes back, turning towards me with a confused look. We're competition in a death match, after all. _He's_ competition.

But maybe … maybe he doesn't have to be. Maybe _we_ don't have to be. Maybe we don't have to give them what they want. Maybe if enough of us band together, maybe if we help each other … then maybe we all have a chance.

Probably not. Probably it's a lost cause. But, if it comes to it, maybe I'd rather die for a lost cause than play the Capitol's game. Maybe I'd rather go down protecting my fellow tributes than give the Capitol what they want. If I'm going to die, anyway – and, chances are, they'll make certain I do – then I might as well try to make it mean something.

Part of me knows, though, that that's a vain endeavor. None of this means anything. None of this has any more of a purpose than to make us fear the Capitol. To remind us that we lost the war. That we have no choice but to do as they say. That they can rip children from their homes, their families, their loved ones, and there's not a damn thing we can do to stop them.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

Looking at the three districts in front of me, you would never guess that we're on our way to a fight to the death. They're holding hands, wrapping their arms around each other, showing their support for each other any way they can.

And maybe it's sweet. Maybe it's touching. But it's also stupid. Don't they realize that in a week or two, most of us are going to be dead? They may as well be hugging corpses. Standing next to corpses. _I_ may as well be standing next to a corpse.

I keep my eyes focused on the chariots ahead. Away from Tullia. I have to admit, the thought of her dying … it's disturbing. I spent most of the train rides avoiding her – and not just because she wouldn't be any help to me in the arena. I don't want to get close to her. I don't want to get attached. Not when she's going to have to die in order for me to make it home.

They're in for a shock once the Games begin – these tributes who seem to want to be friends. Maybe they still think they're fighting a war. And maybe that makes sense. We've been fighting a war for so long, it's hard to imagine it any other way. But in a war, there are two sides. Your side and the other side. And you can afford to trust the people on your side. You can get close to the people on your side. And when you lose them … well, at least you can blame the other side.

But this isn't a war. There are no sides. There is no 'us' and 'them.' Because only one person is going to survive. There's only 'me.' Me and everyone else. Anyone who's not me is eventually going to be the enemy. And pretending otherwise … it's just going to get them killed.

Then again, I suppose that's a good thing – them getting themselves killed. That's fewer of them that I'll have to kill.

I glance around as the chariots approach the end of the street – a large, circular area in front of a building. One by one, they circle around until we form a semicircle – District One on one end, District Twelve on the other, all facing each other. Facing the competition.

It's different now – different than seeing them onscreen. I watched the tape of the reapings, but this … this is different. They seem more real now – these people who are going to have to die. These people I'm going to have to kill. They have real faces. Real lives. Lives that are going to have to end – all twenty-three of them – if I'm going to live.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

We're already at a bit of a disadvantage, it seems. Not that I'm surprised the Capitol would play favorites, I suppose. Favoring the districts that were loyal to them during the rebellion – maybe that makes sense. But it still doesn't seem fair.

Districts One, Two, and Four are definitely dressed the best – One in gold, Two in dark blue uniforms, and Four in a bright blue-green dress. Well, the girl, at least. The boy disappeared into the bottom of his chariot a while ago.

As for the rest of us, there's definitely a trend. Districts Three, Five, Six, and Eight are dressed in various shades of grey and greyish-blue, probably meant to represent factories. District Seven is dark green for trees. Districts Nine, Ten, and Eleven are different shades of brown – probably meant to represent the fields their crops grow in, the land their animals graze on. And District Twelve is clad in coal-black.

And maybe that makes sense as a reminder to the people in the Capitol which districts produce what. But it also makes certain districts seem much more interesting. Which is unfair, but not really all that surprising. Who wants to hear about the textile district when you can focus on the luxury district, instead? Who wants to think about coal when two tributes dressed up as soldiers are much more interesting?

I glance over at Neblina, who seems perfectly content in our rather unappealing outfits. Maybe she doesn't get it. Or maybe … maybe she does. With all of the focus on the districts the Capitol deems more interesting, they might forget about us. Ignore us long enough for us to survive. As I catch her eye, she smiles a little. Maybe she understands this whole thing better than I thought.

I don't have much time to mull it over, though, because President Hale appears on the balcony, with his wife and daughter alongside. His wife, who they're calling the Head Gamemaker. And his daughter, who's apparently hosting this whole festival. Hale steps up to the microphone, smiling a little as he raises his hands for quiet.

"Welcome, tributes!" he calls, as if we're guests of some sort. As if we had any choice in being here. As if we actually _want_ to be in a fight to the death. "Welcome to the First Annual Hunger Games! We of the Capitol are honored to have you as our guests – if only for a short while. We thank you for your courage, your honor, and your sacrifice. And we are pleased to wish you all … a Happy Hunger Games!" He waits for the noise to die down again before adding, "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

The odds. But even now, it's clear that it isn't really about the odds. That not everyone has an equal chance. They can pretend all they like, but it's clear who will ultimately make the decision about who survives this arena. And it sure as hell isn't going to be up to the odds.

* * *

 **Felicity DeBrier, 14  
** **District Eleven**

It seems like ages before they let us leave our chariots. Lucius comes to meet us as I finally climb down. "Have a nice ride?"

Aldous nods a little as he carefully makes his way out of the chariot. "Actually, yes. Enjoy the parade?"

Lucius scoffs a little. "Smile all you want. It's not going to help you once you're in the arena."

Aldous shrugs. "Maybe. But it certainly isn't going to hurt. Come on, Felicity." I follow him as he limps towards the building. The other tributes are already on their way there – or, at least, most of them. A small group has formed by one of the chariots. The two tributes from Seven are tending to the boy from Four, who's still a bit too groggy to walk on his own.

The girls from Two and Four, meanwhile, are making their way towards the building together. Most of the other tributes have stuck with their district partners – at least for the moment. I quickly catch up to Aldous, who's limping badly despite his attempts not to let the pain show. "Are you all right?" I know he's not, of course, but it seems like the polite thing to say.

Aldous nods. "I'll be fine in the morning. It's just that standing for so long… I guess it's not something I'm used to anymore."

I glance away as we keep walking towards the building. If he can't even stand for that long, how is he supposed to fight? Or even run away? I'd been thinking about trying to stay with him once we're in the arena, but now … I don't know. Will I be able to help him? And more than that – should I even be _trying_ to help him?

I feel terrible even thinking it. He's been so kind. So thoughtful. But thoughtfulness isn't going to help once we're in the arena. If he gets into some sort of trouble, if he can't get away fast enough … what do I do then? Would it be better to stay away from him from the start?

Aldous is breathing hard by the time we reach the building. Mercifully, there's an elevator to take us to the eleventh floor, where Aldous slumps onto one of the couches as soon as we enter our room. He closes his eyes for a moment, catching his breath. When he can finally speak, he calls me over. "Felicity? I don't … don't want you to stay with me in the arena. I don't want to … hurt your chances."

The sinking feeling in my stomach returns. It's as if he could read my mind, as if he knew that I was thinking of leaving him. Abandoning him to his fate. But is it really abandonment if I never promised to stay with him in the first place? Just because we're from the same district…

"It's all right." He smiles a little as he drifts off to sleep. "It's been … it's been good."

I swallow hard. It has been good. _He's_ been good. He's been kind and gentle and everything I could want in a friend. But now it's time to start thinking about how I'm going to survive this. And if I have his permission to look elsewhere, then maybe it's time to do so.

* * *

 **And that's a wrap of the pre-training chapters. Next up will be three training chapters. They'll be a bit longer, but will still have eight tributes each.**

 **Any early alliance predictions/recommendations? We've got most of the alliances figured out, but there's still room for swapping if anyone has a particular request.**


	13. Not Today

**Not Today**

" _What do we say to the God of death?" "Not today."_

* * *

 **Memphis Ash, 18  
** **District Four**

I'm still a bit groggy from the drugs when the door opens. Light comes flooding into my room. My cell. Or what might as well be a cell. They brought me here after the chariot parade, and will likely keep me here until the Games start, considering what I did. Maybe I should have expected that.

But I wouldn't take it back. Not for anything. I killed one of them, and that's worth whatever they do to me in the next few days. I'm just sorry I didn't have the chance to kill a few more before they took me down.

"That was incredibly stupid." I turn to face the voice, and my chains rattle a little. I can barely move, but that didn't stop me last time. Didn't stop me from convincing them to let me go long enough to make my move. Could they really be stupid enough to fall for that again?

The voice belongs to an older man. White hair, tired eyes. What's he doing here? "Who are you?"

He takes a step closer. "My name is General Luther Tyrone. I'm here to give you a bit of advice, since you were careless enough to kill your last escort."

"I wasn't being careless."

"I know."

"What makes you think I won't do the same to you?"

Tyrone takes a step closer, holding up a thin metal collar. "This. Once I activate it, it'll deliver a shock large enough to incapacitate you if you come within ten feet of anyone not wearing one of these." He taps a bracelet on his wrist. " _These_ have a button that allows me to administer a similar shock whether you were misbehaving or not. Maybe it's a bit of overkill, but given what happened to your last escort, we're not taking any chances. It was the only way the Gamemakers would agree to allow you anywhere near the other tributes."

"And what if I don't want to _be_ anywhere near the other tributes?"

Tryone shrugs. "Then that's your choice – and entirely not my problem. I'm only here as a courtesy to Ms. Shaw; she would have wanted someone to make sure you still had a chance. But I think it would be a mistake to avoid the others entirely. There are a few tributes out there who share your … sentiments … about the Games, the Capitol, the war. Mine, for example."

"Yours?"

"District Seven. Maybe you noticed them last night – if you weren't too drugged, that is. They helped you back here. Recognized who you were immediately, of course. I tried to tell them it wasn't a good idea to associate with you, but … well, they had their own ideas. So if they're going to _insist_ on being seen with you, I might as well make sure you don't murder anyone else and ruin their chances."

"What makes you think I won't murder _them_?"

"Because you're a fanatic, not a mindless killer. If there was one thing you rebels had going for you during the war, it was your loyalty. That won't be enough to save you now … but it could help you last a bit longer."

"A bit longer."

Tyrone nods. "I hope you don't have any delusions that you're going to make it out of that arena alive. Fighting on the other side of a war is one thing – and maybe even something the Capitol could forgive. Attacking your district partner – well, that could be seen as a random act of rage. Maybe even a misunderstanding of exactly how the rules work. But killing your own escort? The Capitol won't stand for the cold-blooded murder of one of our own. You're going to die. The only question is whether you're going to die fighting, or so drugged you can barely function. And whether you're going to spend your last days with your fellow rebels … or alone in this cell. So," he shrugs, holding up the collar. "Which is it going to be?"

I clench my teeth as he takes a step closer. "What is it you want?"

"An alliance. You and my two tributes, together in the arena, taking on the Loyalists. You'll lose, of course, but you might get the chance to take one or two of them down with you. Help each other. Fight alongside each other – just like old times. Give the Capitol a good show."

"And what do I get in return?"

Tyrone steps closer, nearly on top of me now. "The chance to die on your feet. To go down swinging. To die an honorable death for your cause." He kneels down next to me. "I was a soldier myself, Memphis. I know how much that means. And, in the end … you get the chance to see your sister again."

"My sister's dead. Murdered by our own father for being willing to stand up to monsters like you."

"I know." He slides the collar around my neck and fastens it with a click, then takes a few steps back. "Do we have a deal?"

* * *

 **Simon Galley, 18  
** **District Seven**

It's a few moments before Tyrone emerges from District Four's quarters, but, sure enough, when he does, Memphis is beside him. Memphis shakes his head. "Keep back," he warns. "If you get to close, I—"

I hold up the bracelet Tyrone gave me, and Silver does the same. "It's all right," Tyrone assures us. "Just stay away from everyone else, and you'll be fine."

 _Stay away from everyone else._ I open my mouth to object, but then I put it together. Just because _Memphis_ can't go near anyone else doesn't mean that Silver and I can't. I nod a little as we head for the elevator. "Let's go, then. We're wasting time."

As it turns out, we're not. Once we arrive at the first floor, the other tributes have already gathered outside a large room, but we clearly weren't the ones they've been waiting for. For a few moments, we simply wait at the back of the crowd – Memphis making sure to stay a safe distance away from the others. Momentarily, the door opens, and a woman steps forward to greet us.

"Welcome, tributes!" Her voice echoes through the small, crowded hallway. "Welcome to the training center! These next three days could very well be the most important days of your life – because these next three days could _save_ your life. Inside, you'll find a variety of stations, any one of which could mean the difference between life and death in the arena. There are stations with different sorts of weapons, as well as stations focusing on different survival skills – building fires, finding shelter, hunting, and the like."

Beside me, Memphis scoffs. It's hard to disagree with him. We're not here so the Capitol can watch us build little shelters. We're here to kill each other – period.

"You will have three days to train, so use your time wisely," the woman continues. "There are trainers at every station – experts in their fields. They're here to help you, to prepare you for what you'll face in the arena. They'll also be your sparring partners if you wish to fight. We don't want any of you to end up getting hurt before the Games." She laughs a little.

Memphis is smiling a little as he asks the obvious. "What if we hurt the trainers?"

"You won't."

"But what if we do?"

The woman smiles sweetly. "We have guards standing by ready to disarm and immobilize you. So you won't … if you know what's good for you. Any other questions?"

The boy from Nine raises his hand. As if he's still in school. It might be cute if it wasn't so pitiful. But the woman eats it right up. "Yes, dear?"

"How long do we have?"

"As long as you'd like. Lunch will be served at the tables on the right side of the room when the whistle blows, and there will be another break for supper – which will be provided in your quarters. Following supper, you may return here if you'd like, and you may stay as long as you wish. Feel free to arrive as early as you like tomorrow morning, and the morning after. I would advise you, however, to balance your training time with a reasonable amount of sleep. Being well-rested will help you in the arena just as much as being well-trained. Anything else?"

This time, there are no questions, and the woman steps aside to allow us into the training center. I have to admit, it's rather impressive. A rack of weapons covers the opposite wall. Swords, spears, knives, bows, axes, and an array of other weapons whose names I'm not familiar with. A few of the tributes rush in that direction, while others linger by the door uncertainly. Still others head for the less-intimidating section of survival stations to our left.

As I'm glancing around the room, however, I spot them – four figures watching from a hallway above the room, separated from us by a set of glass doors. The president. His wife, the Head Gamemaker. His daughter, our Host. And General Tyrone.

Maybe it shouldn't surprise me. He's a well-respected general; of course he would be in cahoots with the president and his family. But it's still a bit unnerving to know that he's watching us.

Memphis follows my gaze, and lets out a wry laugh when he sees them. "Let them watch," he shrugs. "Maybe they'll learn something." With that, he heads for the weapons section across the room.

And maybe he's right not to worry. But even as I follow him, I can't shake the feeling that we're playing right into their hands. That the three of us are doing exactly what the Capitol expects us to do. Playing the role we're expected to play.

But all three of us know how that version of the story ends. The traitors die at the hands of the righteous Capitol forces. And that's not a role I want to play. Not today.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

If this is the role they want us to play, then maybe it's best if we simply play it. Bliss looks a bit hesitant as she picks up a sword, but I reach for one with all the confidence I can muster, as if I've been training with one my whole life.

I haven't, of course. The training I received when I volunteered for the Capitol military was mostly with guns. I can load a rifle as quickly as the next recruit, and fire one twice as well. But I didn't exactly learn how to use a sword – and with good reason. Why get close enough to engage someone in close combat when you can shoot them in the head?

So it's tempting – very tempting – to choose one of the bows and start with that, instead. But if there are other sorts of weapons here, there's a reason. It's a clue. If these are the weapons they're giving us to practice with, then they'll probably be the weapons we're expected to use in the arena.

Which makes sense, I suppose. If they simply gave us all guns, the Games would probably be rather short. Bloody, but short. Clearly, they don't want it to be short. And they don't want us shooting each other from a distance. They want us to feel the blood on our hands. They want us to touch the bodies of those we've killed. They want us to know that it's real.

So I pick up a sword and swing it around a little. It almost feels good. Heavy, but good. The blade has been dulled, but it still digs deep into the dummy as I swing it again. The trainer – a tall man with bright orange hair – takes a step towards us. "Not bad. You've got some strength. But fighting a real person is different. Care to give it a try?"

I glance at Bliss, who nods to me. Offering to let me go first. I take a step towards the trainer. "All right, then. What do I—"

But before I can finish my sentence, his sword comes swinging at me. I step to the side, but not quickly enough. The flat of his blade taps me on the side. "You're dead," he smirks. "Or, at least, you would be, if I wanted it. Try again."

"I wasn't ready."

"Do you think the other tributes are going to wait until you're ready?" This time, when he swings, I'm ready, and his sword crashes into mine. "Better." He swings again. Lower this time. I dodge the first blow, but his second swing finds my leg.

Bliss giggles a little, until his sword taps _her_ on the shoulder. "Hey!" she objects. "I wasn't fighting."

"You won't be able to say that in the arena," the trainer points out. "You _have_ to be ready." I dodge his next blow. "Every second. Every day." I take a swing at him, which he easily blocks. "Or night. Probably means it's a good thing there are two of you."

 _Two of us._ I glance at Bliss, which costs me a tap on the lag. He just naturally assumed that we were … what? Working together? Is that even allowed?

Maybe. After all, how could they forbid it? They could tell us not to help each other, I suppose, but, once we're in the arena, how could they possibly hope to enforce it? And they never said it _wasn't_ allowed. They just said…

"One Victor." I swing again, and the trainer easily blocks my blow. "How can we work together when only one of us can win?"

He shrugs. "I didn't say you had to work together _forever_. But for a little while – it could help. Two of you means you don't have to stay awake all night. You won't have to worry as much."

"Except about each other," I reason. If I'm asleep, and Bliss decides…

"That's the question, isn't it," Bliss reasons. "Can we trust each other?"

The trainer shrugs. "It certainly looks like _they_ can." He nods towards the pair from Seven and the boy from Four, who have teamed up against a pair of trainers.

I glance at Bliss, who nods. That settles it. If traitors like them can trust each other, then certainly two loyalists can trust each other to remain … well, loyal. I lower my sword for a moment and hold out a hand to Bliss. "What do you say?"

Bliss hesitates. But only for a moment. Clearly, it's too good an opportunity to pass up. The chance to have a trained soldier on her side – it's obviously worth the risk. She nods, takes a step forward, and shakes my hand. "Deal."

 _Deal._ It sounds strange, when each of us knows that we can't both survive. The terms of the deal are a bit … well, a bit fuzzy. What happens when it's clear we can't work together anymore? What happens when there are only a few of us left? Or if there are only two of us left?

Not today. That's a problem for later. We're still a long way from that point. I raise my sword just as the trainer moves to tap me on the side. I manage to catch the blow just in time. There will be time to worry about the details later. Right now, we have things to learn.

* * *

 **Bliss Loverly, 16  
** **District Four**

It seems like all we're learning is how to hit things with sticks. And how to avoid getting hit with sticks. I bite back a rude comment as the trainer once again makes it through my defenses and gives my thigh a tap. I get that he's trying to help us – I really do – but there has to be a better way to teach us than this.

And there has to be a better weapon. At least a lighter weapon. My arms are already starting to tire. How long have we been at this? It seems like hours. Gardenia's barely sweating, but I'm already breathing heavily.

But I can't start complaining. If it starts to seem like I can't hold my own, Gardenia might go back on our deal. And I definitely don't want that. When I approached her last night, I was hoping for someone to train with. It didn't even occur to me that we could help each other once we're in the Games.

Maybe it makes sense, though. Memphis and the pair from Seven – they clearly think they're a team. And they're almost certainly going to be targeting us. Memphis knows I'm a loyalist. And Gardenia's outfit during the parade left no doubts about where her loyalties lie. If they're going to target us, anyway, we have a better chance together.

 _Together_. But already there's a nagging feeling in the back of my mind – the knowledge that 'together' won't last forever. It can't. One Victor, the Capitol said. Only one of us can survive.

Gardenia knows that as well as I do, of course. Any sort of agreement – any sort of alliance – can only be temporary, at best. But even a temporary arrangement is better than nothing. And I'm not about to jeopardize the only one I have by coming across as a useless whiner.

And it's not as if Gardenia's doing much better. Sure, she doesn't seem as tired as I am, but neither of us has managed to actually hit the trainer. At all. Not even once. Which, on the surface, doesn't bode well for our chances in the arena. But we won't be facing him in the arena – or even other adults like him. We'll be facing the other tributes. Tributes with roughly the same amount of training as us.

And, glancing around the room between blows, it doesn't look like any of them are doing much better. There are a few tributes at the weapons stations. Memphis and his two fellow rebels are still sparring with their trainers. The boy from Twelve is practicing with what looks like a pickax. The girl from Three is throwing some sort of spear at one of the dummies. And there are a handful of tributes trying to throw knives.

But there are definitely more around the survival stations. And maybe that makes sense. Given the choice between learning how to survive and learning how to kill, maybe it's only natural that most people would pick the first one. I might have done the same thing, if Gardenia hadn't suggested that we try out the weapons first. Finding food, making shelter, lighting a fire to keep yourself warm – that's one thing. Killing other people is something else entirely.

But it's something I'm going to have to do, if I want to make it out of this. So maybe it's good that we're practicing this, rather than playing around with leaves and sticks and berries. For all the trainer's talk about how anything in here could save our lives, we all know the truth. The Capitol doesn't want to see us pick berries. They want to see us kill. And the sooner we start acting like it, the better.

I swing again. And again. But it must be clear to our trainer now that I'm getting tired, because he holds us a hand. "All right. Let's try another weapon. Something lighter, maybe. More precise. Hacking away with a broadsword is one thing, but you might not have access to something so bulky. Let's have a go with these."

As he turns around to retrieve some other sort of weapon, however, I see my chance. Without thinking, I give his side a quick tap with my sword. "You're dead."

The trainer whirls around, and I can see Gardenia gaping at me out of the corner of my eye. But, before she can say anything, the trainer bursts out laughing. " _That's_ it. _That's_ how you fight in the arena."

"But—" Gardenia starts, but apparently thinks better of it.

The trainer shakes his head. "Go on. But what?"

"She cheated."

The trainer smiles a little. "You're still thinking like a soldier. You still want to fight with honor. And that's noble … but it'll get you killed. If you want to survive in the arena, you have to be willing to cheat. To fight dirty. Because you never know which of your opponents are going to play by the rules … and which are going to do anything necessary in order to survive."

He gives me a clap on the back, and I can feel myself blushing. Bursting with pride. Maybe Gardenia's a good soldier. Maybe she knows what she's doing. But I know something better – something my family taught me. I know how to take advantage of an opportunity when it comes my way. And once we're in the arena, I intend to do just that.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

It doesn't take me long to find something at the edible plants station that's much more useful for smoking than it is for eating. There don't appear to be any pipes, but why should that stop me? Chances are, there won't be any sort of pipes in the arena. Shouldn't stop me from taking advantage of what I can find.

So I make my way over to the fire-starting station, where the boy from Eleven has somehow managed to light a fire. I plop down next to him as casually as I can. "Mind if I join you?"

He looks up, surprised. "Sure. I was just … well, it seemed like a reasonable place to start."

I can't help but laugh a little at that. "It looks like you're already an expert. You'd think you're from District Seven or something."

He shakes his head. "No, but when you're living in a field hospital, you pick up a thing or two." He chuckles a little. "People think … well, people think that war is a lot of fighting. And it is, I suppose. But it's also a lot of work. The same people doing the fighting are the people doing the cooking, the laundry … and, yeah, the fire-starting."

I lean a little closer, hoping to drop some of my plant in his fire without him noticing. "You were in the war, then."

He nods. "If you want to call it that. I never did any actual fighting, but, well…" He pats the stump of his missing arm. "Like I said, war isn't all about the fighting. Once I was well enough to help out after my injury, they gave me whatever jobs they thought I could do. Didn't take me long to learn how to make a fire even with one hand. Anything I could do to help out – to feel useful – was a good thing."

I nod a little. That makes sense. He leans back against the wall. "Most of the time, though, I spent helping out in the hospital. Learned a bit about how to stitch up wounds, how to bandage injuries. Also learned a bit about medicine." He smirks. "A bit about plants, even." He nods towards the bundle of plants in my hand. "Plants like those, for example."

I can feel my face flushing. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I just found these over at the—"

"At the edible plants station. And the roots are edible, it's true – though not particularly tasty. But the leaves – it's the leaves that they're actually known for. Special properties, those leaves." He smirks. "You want to be careful with those. I wouldn't throw them all on at once."

"You wouldn't … what?"

"I wouldn't throw them all on at once. But a few at a time, giving off a nice, pleasant aroma – I don't suppose there's any harm in that." He nods towards the fire.

I can't help a little smile. "You don't … you don't mind?"

"Why would I?"

Why, indeed? I've been asking people the same thing for years. What's the harm, after all? I drop a few leaves on, and the boy smiles. "Works as a bit of a painkiller, too," he admits. "Nothing like morphling, but I don't suppose you'd find any of that in the edible plants section."

"Probably not. I can have a look around for something stronger, if you'd like."

He shakes his head. "Don't bother. I already had a look. Lots of plants, though. Plenty of plants." He closes his eyes for a moment. "Smells good."

And it does. I can't help a small laugh. I wasn't expecting this. I don't know what I was expecting when I sat down, but it wasn't this. After a moment, I turn to the boy. "I don't think I caught your name."

"Aldous. And you?"

"Paean."

"Paean," he repeats. "Nice to meet you, Paean. And thank you. When I sat down, I didn't really think anyone was going to join me."

"What about the girl from your district?"

Aldous shakes his head. "She might have, but … I pretty much told her last night that she should stay away from me. She was getting close, and I didn't want to … well, I guess I didn't want to drag her down with me." He sighs a little. "What about you? The boy from your district?"

"Nothing so noble," I admit. "I sort of … attacked him last night during the chariot rides."

Aldous is silent for a moment, staring. Then, suddenly, he bursts out laughing. "You _attacked_ him? Why?"

"I … well, I thought the Capitol might find it interesting. And maybe they did. But now … well, I don't think he wants anything to do with me." I shake my head. Part of me doesn't blame him. What would I have done, if he'd been the one who had attacked me? Even if he had insisted that it was a joke, would I have given him a second chance?

Aldous still hasn't stopped laughing. I can feel my face flushing a bit – whether from embarrassment or from the fumes, I'm not sure. "It's not _that_ funny," I insist. Maybe the smoke is getting to him.

He shakes his head. "No, but that is."

I turn and look where he's pointing. A few stations away, my district partner Horario is sitting with a girl. A girl who looks like she's from…

I turn to Aldous. "Is that your district partner?"

* * *

 **Aldous Clement, 17  
** **District Eleven**

I'm glad Felicity found someone. Or, at least, seems like she's found someone. And, from what Paean can tell me about Horario, someone who's a reasonable match for her. Someone who won't slow her down. Someone who won't hurt her chances.

Basically, someone who isn't me.

I lean back against the wall, taking in the fumes. They're starting to make me a little dizzy, but it's a pleasant sort of dizzy. The sort of dizzy that you get right before you're about to…

It's not until Paean gives my shoulder a shake that I realize I must have fallen asleep. "What … what time is it?"

"Lunchtime," Paean shrugs. "The bell just rang. You must have been tired."

I was. Still am, a bit, I suppose. But I feel a lot better than I did. Even sleeping – and really sleeping well – for an hour or two can do wonders. And I certainly didn't sleep well last night. But now…

Now, everything seems to be falling into place. Felicity has found someone else. Someone who can actually help her. And I've found someone who … well, I'm not sure exactly what to make of her, but I get the feeling she's not going to let herself get killed in the arena because of me. She'd leave me behind first – or maybe even kill me herself.

And maybe … maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that's exactly what I need. For as long as we can survive, we'll have a bit of fun. We'll be good company for each other. But when the time comes … she won't hesitate. I won't drag her down.

And maybe that's the best I can ask for.

Paean helps me up, and we make our way to the tables, where a large buffet is spread out in front of us. I'm a bit dizzy from the smoke, but I can still smell how good the food is. How rich, how delicious. Nothing like the food back in District Eleven.

That's been one of the best things about this whole situation. It's funny, you wouldn't think there would be anything good about preparing for a fight to the death. But if you can forget where we are – even for a moment – then there's so much to enjoy. The food. The clothes. Even the beds. They're so soft, so comfortable. Maybe it's even worth it – worth what's about to happen in the arena – to live like this for a little while.

No. No, that's not it. It's not worth it – not really. And it's certainly not something I would have chosen on my own. I would trade all of this for my life back in District Eleven in a heartbeat. But since that's not an option … well, I might as well enjoy anything I can about our time here.

Starting with the food. I fill my plate as quickly as I can and dig in. Paean smiles a little. "Don't get to eat like this much back in District Eleven, huh?"

I shake my head. "No. You?"

Paean laughs. "Not in a million years. Well, _maybe_ if you took a million years' worth of our food, it might add up to this. Maybe. But it still wouldn't taste as good." She scarfs down several mouthfuls of bread. "Here's hoping they feed us this well in the arena."

I turn my attention back to my food. The arena. I'd been trying not to think about that. Not yet. Not today. Because once we're in the arena, everything that I've been enjoying about the Capitol – the food, the clothes, the comfortable beds – will be gone. None of that will matter. It'll just be the twenty-four of us trying to kill each other. And, eventually, one of them will kill me.

But not yet. I don't need to think about that yet. I take a few more bites of chicken before I turn to Paean. "Paean, once we're in the arena…"

"I thought you didn't want to think about the arena yet."

I cock an eyebrow. Has it been that obvious? I nod a little. "I don't. But once we are … just promise me one thing."

She leans forward across the table. "And what's that?"

"Promise me that you won't get killed trying to save me. Promise me that, if it comes down to it, you'll leave me behind. Promise me that you won't let me drag you down."

Paean smiles, as if she's relieved that _that's_ what I wanted. "Well, then, Aldous, I promise. I won't risk my life for you. I won't get killed for you. If it comes down to my life or yours, I will gladly leave you behind." She flashes a grin. "Who knows? I might even kill you myself." She leans back in her chair. "Does that make you feel better?"

Actually, it does. But I don't say so. I simply dig my fork back into my food and nod a little. "Thank you, Paean. That means a lot."

* * *

 **Horario Garcia, 15  
** **District Six**

It shouldn't matter that she's laughing at me. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. Every time I glance over at Paean, she seems to be giggling uncontrollably along with Felicity's district partner, Aldous. Felicity insists that they aren't laughing at us. And maybe Aldous isn't. But with the way Paean's been treating me…

In any case, it definitely feels good to be around someone a bit more … normal. And maybe that's rude, maybe that's mean, but … well, it's my time to spend. These could very well be my last few days. And if I don't want to spend them with someone who seems to want to spend her time as high as she can … well, that's my problem. I don't care about trying to enjoy my last few days. I'd rather focus on making sure they _aren't_ my last few days.

And Felicity seems to be on the same page as far as that goes. Last night, she said, her district partner all but told her to stay away from him, because she'd have a better chance that way. And he seems like a nice enough guy, but, from the look of things, he's probably right. He's missing most of an arm. He's got a bad limp. And he seems to think that hanging out with Paean and smoking is a good use of his training time.

Felicity and I, on the other hand, have made good use of our time. We spent a few hours at the edible plants station, where she seems to have a bit of an advantage over most of the tributes. She's spent a lot of time in District Eleven's fields, so she knows plants like I know … something, I guess.

But not anything that's likely to be in the arena, if these stations are anything to go by. Setting traps. Hunting. Building fires. Identifying edible plants. Everything about this points to some sort of outdoor arena. Which makes sense, I suppose. There wouldn't be much food to find if they stuck us all in, say, a factory. But it definitely gives an advantage to the districts whose major industries have something to do with the outdoors. Farming, ranching, lumber … any of those would be an advantage. But transportation? Factories that build cars and hovercrafts and trains? Probably not.

Which gives me even more of a reason to stay close to Felicity. I was a bit skeptical at first, I'll admit, but a few of the other tributes seem to be teaming up, as well. And if they can, then there's nothing to stop us from doing the same. Maybe it even means we'll _have_ to, in order to survive. The tributes over at the weapons stations – the pair from Seven and the boy from Four, the girls from Two and Four – I wouldn't want to be alone if either of those groups found me.

But how much help is Felicity going to be, if they find us? Even with the two of us working together, would we have any real chance against a pair of older, stronger tributes? Maybe we'd have a better chance than either of us would have on our own, but still…

I'm still lost in thought when the whistle blows again, signaling what is probably suppertime. Felicity glances up from the knots she's been tying. "I guess I'll … I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

I nod, but, as she starts to leave, I have a better idea. "Would you like to … join us for supper?" Maybe she's not very talkative company, but it'd be better than spending the evening with only Paean and Maia.

Felicity turns, surprised. "Is that allowed?"

I shrug. "I don't know why not. It's the same food. We could go to your floor, I suppose—"

"No," Felicity interrupts. "Not that I wouldn't want … It's just Lucius. He's … well, I don't think he's all that interested in helping us."

I nod sympathetically as we head for the elevator. Maybe Maia isn't perfect, but at least she's enthusiastic. And maybe, in her own way, she even cares what happens to us. Maybe.

Sure enough, she's there to meet us as we arrive. "Excellent! Even more friends!"

More? I glance over at the table, where Paean and Aldous are already eating. Paean grins as Felicity and I take our seats next to them. "About time you two showed up. We were beginning to worry."

Worry? About what? What did she think was going to happen to us? Maybe I should be grateful that she's at least pretending to care about what happens to me. But something about her words seems a bit … off.

Or maybe she's just been smoking too long. Aldous smiles warmly at Felicity. "I'm glad you found someone."

Felicity hesitates, maybe trying to choose the best response. "You, too," she says at last, nodding towards Paean.

And maybe that's all there is to it, in the end. They're a strange pair. We're a strange pair. But maybe the important thing is that we've found _someone_. None of us will be going into these Games alone. But, at the same time, one thought has lodged itself in the back of my mind, refusing to leave. Refusing to be ignored. Eventually, if I want to win, I'll have to be alone.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

It doesn't take Simon and Memphis long to decide they're done with dinner. Not that I blame them much. Eating with Tyrone is more than a little awkward. He invited the girl from Four – Bliss – to join us, but she and Memphis aren't exactly friendly. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical when Simon suggested teaming up with someone who killed his escort and tried to kill his district partner. But once Memphis explained the lies that Bliss' family spread about his during the war … well, that makes it different, I suppose.

I never really thought about that much – the propaganda on the other side. Maybe we rebels stretched the truth a little bit on occasion, made people like Simon seem a bit larger than life, but the Capitol's story about Memphis and his family was an outright lie. And Bliss was a direct part of that. Maybe it makes sense that Memphis would go after her.

Maybe he has just as much reason to hate the Capitol as Simon and I do. Not that it's a competition, of course. _Everyone_ in the district has a reason to hate the Capitol. The difference is, only some of us realize it.

I'm still finishing my dinner when Simon and Memphis get up to leave, ready to head back to the training center. "Coming, Silver?" Simon asks.

I shake my head. "I'll join you in a little while – if that's okay."

"Of course. You'll know where to find us."

Of course I will. We didn't leave the weapons stations all day. And maybe that makes sense. This is a _fight_ to the death, after all. But even though we're supposed to be learning how to survive, it seems like all I've learned so far is how unprepared I am compared to the two of them.

Tyrone leans forward in his chair. "It's not your fault, you know. Not everyone's a soldier. But it won't take them long to realize that you're the one slowing them down."

I clench my teeth, digging my fork into my chicken, wishing I could say that he's wrong. That I wasn't thinking the same thing, wondering if the two of them have changed their minds about wanting to work with me. But what comes out instead is, "Why do you care?"

"Because of the three of you, you're the only one who has a chance of winning."

"Me?" I glance around, thinking maybe I misheard him. How could _I_ have a better chance than Simon or Memphis? "Why me?"

Tyrone shakes his head. "Think about it, Silver. They were both soldiers. They fought against the Capitol. They killed. And they have no one to blame for it but themselves. They made their choices freely – and, in Memphis' case, against the wishes of his family. You, on the other hand, can reasonably claim you were just following your parents' instructions – or your cousin's, if you like. You were only doing as you were told. You were brainwashed by your own propaganda … and now you've realized your mistakes."

"That's a lie. My family—"

"Of _course_ it's a lie!" Tyrone snaps. "But that should be familiar territory. Stretching the truth, making it more interesting, painting your own cause in a better light than the other side's – that's what propaganda _does_. On both sides. Neither side is worried about the _truth_. They can't afford to be. It doesn't matter what's _true_. All that matters is what will convince their soldiers to keep fighting, convince their followers to keep supporting their efforts."

"That's not true."

"No? How often did you and your family claim that the rebels' victory was inevitable? That all it would take was enough people working together, believing in your common cause, and the Capitol would be defeated. And of _course_ you did. No one will go to war for a cause that says, 'Well, we may or may not win, but at least you'll feel good that you supported the _right_ side.' Everyone wants to believe their cause can win. But only one side does." He leans back, shaking his head. "And sometimes, no one wins."

I turn my attention back to my food, avoiding his gaze. _Sometimes, no one wins._ Even if I make it out of these Games alive, it won't be a victory. My family – they'll still be dead. I'll have nothing to go back to. Survival and winning … maybe they're not the same thing.

But that doesn't mean I don't want to survive. I shake my head, getting up from the table. "And sometimes denying someone else the chance to win is enough of a victory," I shoot back. The Capitol wants us dead – that much is clear. The three of us rebels – they want us to die in shame and disgrace. If one of us can deny them that, then that's good enough for me.

Tyrone shakes his head. "That's a good slogan. Maybe they'll put it on your tombstone."

"Maybe. But not today." Without another word, I storm out of the room and head for the elevator. Maybe I'm not a soldier. Maybe I'm not as prepared as Memphis and Simon. But I'm not going down without a fight. I won't – I can't – give them that satisfaction.

* * *

 **And that concludes our first day of training. A few early alliances, and more to come in the next two training chapters. Hope you're enjoying.**


	14. Even the Humblest Pieces

**Even the Humblest Pieces**

" _Even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. Sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them."_

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

It shouldn't be this hard to sleep in so comfortable a bed. I glance at the clock on the wall. Only 3:24. Three minutes later than the last time I checked. Part of me knows I should sleep. But the other part of me is itching to get back to the training center. To make sure I get as much practice as I can before…

Before the arena. Before I have to do it for real. Before I have to fight, to kill, like I knew I would have to when I volunteered. I knew what I was signing up for, but now, lying here in a soft bed with a full stomach and warm clothes … now it seems a bit more real. A bit scarier, even. All the things I wanted when I volunteered – food, clean clothes, a good bath, a safe place to sleep – I have them already.

But I wouldn't, if I hadn't volunteered. I'm only here – only warm and dry and clean – because I said I was willing to risk my life in the Games, and now I have to follow through. Finally, I roll out from underneath the soft, cozy blankets. If I'm not going to be able to sleep, I might as well do something productive with my time. They said we could arrive at the training center as early as we wanted…

The training center is empty when I arrive, but the doors still open when I push on them. From the look of things, I have the whole place to myself. The lights are a bit dimmer, but I can still see as I make my way over to the weapons stations, choose a knife, and begin hacking away at one of the dummies.

It doesn't take me long to figure out that this might not have been the best idea. Fighting dummies is only so useful. Dummies don't fight back. Dummies don't think. In order to really practice fighting, I need another person.

So I head for the survival stations, instead, and finally settle down at the shelter-building one. I already know a thing or two about building shelters, after all – but not out of these materials. I'm used to working with cardboard boxes, garbage cans, anything that people have thrown away.

But it's not all that different, I quickly figure out as I start patching the sticks and leaves together into something that resembles a place to sleep. The basics are the same. Keep the rain off. Keep the heat in. And make sure it blends in with the surroundings as much as possible. Whether you're sleeping on the streets or in the woods, it's useful not to be noticed.

By the time I've finished my shelter, I'm finally starting to feel tired. Tired enough, maybe, to try it out. I glance around, which is pointless, of course. There's still no one here. Convinced there's no one to see me, I crawl inside my little shelter and lie down. It's small, but cozy – and much more familiar than the giant bed upstairs. So cozy, in fact, I might just…

 _Is he asleep? I think he is. Maybe he's dead. One less for the others to take care of, I suppose._ The voices startle me as I slowly roll over in my shelter. How long have they been talking? I apparently fell asleep on my right side, leaving my bad ear exposed. They could have been talking for hours, and I would never have known.

One of the trainers gives my shelter a kick, bringing part of it down on me. I cry out – more in surprise than pain. I was careful not to build it out of anything that might harm me if it collapsed. You never know when a strong wind or an inconsiderate passer-by might come along.

"Leave him alone!" I peek out of my shelter. The voice belongs to one of the younger tributes – a boy with a number 3 on the sleeve of his shirt.

The trainer shrugs. "Why? Once you're in the arena, anyone who finds him will do much worse."

The boy backs up a little. Hesitates. But then he takes a step towards me. "But we're not in the arena yet. And do you really think the president will let you keep this job if it gets out that you were careless enough to injure one of the tributes?"

"He's not hurt." But the trainer sounds a bit less certain now.

"Not this time – and you should be glad about that. But you might not get so lucky next time. If he hadn't built that shelter so well, the whole thing might have come down, and that wouldn't have ended so well."

The trainer makes a show of shrugging as casually as he can before strutting off. The boy turns to me, offering me a hand as I climb out from under the shelter. "Are you all right?"

"I … yes, I – he just … not hurt … yes." Damn it, why does nothing ever seem to come out the way I want it to? "Yes."

But instead of staring at me, the boy simply smiles. "I'm Lincoln. What's your name?"

Simple question. _Come on, you can answer this without sounding like an idiot._ "Maverick. District One." I hesitate, glancing over at the trainers. "Thank you for … they … if you didn't … might have—"

Lincoln shakes his head. "You're welcome." He starts to walk away, but then turns back. "Can I ask you something?"

I nod. Probably something about my face. About the scars. About the words that have been spilling their way out of my mouth. Something most people would consider rude, but no one thinks twice about asking a scarred, dirty little boy.

Instead, Lincoln nods towards my shelter. "Can you show me how to do that?"

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

Maverick is surprisingly good with his hands. Maybe it shouldn't be much of a surprise, I suppose, since the shelter he'd built was pretty impressive before the trainers got to it. Still, it's hard to believe how quickly he works. My hands are fumbling just trying to keep up with him.

By the time the other tributes start trickling into the training center, the two of us have constructed another shelter – slightly larger this time, big enough for the both of us. I nod, satisfied, as the two of us climb inside to make sure it will hold. Maybe it's a good thing, after all, that I couldn't sleep and ended up coming down to the center earlier than I'd planned. I don't know what the trainers would have done to Maverick if I hadn't.

Not that they would have hurt him – not really. Not intentionally. Not much. But, still, it's easy to see he's been through enough. He hasn't said exactly what happened to him during the war, but the scars on his face tell enough of a story. Well, that and the fact that he volunteered. How desperate would someone have to be in order for the Hunger Games to seem like a good alternative to whatever life they had back in the districts?

I don't ask, though. If he wants to tell me, he will. And from the way he talks, I might be able to understand about half of it, anyway. I shake the thought from my head as I clap him on the back, congratulating him for a job well done. Maybe he's not one for conversation, but he certainly seems to know what he's doing.

But as soon as I clap him on the back, he cries out, startled – maybe even a little afraid. Quickly, I draw my hand back. "It's okay. It's all right. I didn't mean to hurt you."

He shakes his head. "Not hurt. Just…"

Just a bit jumpy. But it's hard to blame him. We're here to fight each other to the death, after all. After a few days, we'll probably all be a bit jumpy.

A few days. Will I even be alive in a few days? Will he? I swallow back the lump that's made its way to my throat. The thought of him dying in the arena makes me sick. Sure, he volunteered to be here, but it's clear he didn't do it because he wanted to kill. He did it to escape … something. Something worse.

"Sorry." He quickly crawls out of the shelter. "Sorry. Don't mean – I just – please … stay away."

I shake my head, following him. "Why? Because I startled you? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Not you – me. Don't want me as … as…" He gestures helplessly at one of the groups over at the weapons stations. The two girls from Two and Four, practicing together. Helping each other. Maybe even planning to help each other in the arena. Is that what he thought I wanted?

 _Is_ that what I wanted?

Maybe. Maybe it was. Maybe it still is. But it's clear that's not what Maverick is interested in – not yet, at least. "Okay," I agree. "We don't have to be … a group, I guess, but … well, you helped me. You showed me how to make a shelter. Let me return the favor."

Maverick shakes his head emphatically. "Already did."

I raise an eyebrow. "With the trainers?" He nods. "Maybe a little bit, but that's not really something that's going to help you. They're right – I won't be able to do that in the arena. Well, I mean, I could, but it's not like anyone is actually going to listen to us if we just tell them to leave us alone."

Maverick doesn't say anything, but I can tell from his expression that I'm not helping. "My point is, there has to be something else I can to do help you – for a little while, at least – even if we don't end up working together in the arena."

"What?"

I glance around. He has a point. There isn't exactly anything here that I'm familiar with. I've never been in a fight. I've never had to fend for myself. My parents have always been there to take care of me. To help me. To teach me.

But maybe that's something. Because _what_ they taught me has already helped. Their words, their sense of diplomacy – that's got to be worth something. It got the trainers to leave Maverick alone. Maybe it can do more.

On the train, Leopold told us that, after three days of training, they're going to interview us. To let the Capitol see us. Meet us. And that the audience's opinion of us might be able to help us in the arena. Right now, Maverick can't seem to string together a complete sentence. But if I help him…

If I help him, of course, I could be hurting myself. Every moment I spend trying to help him look better is a moment I could be using to learn something new myself. But if we _are_ working together – if I can convince him that working together would benefit us both in the arena – than helping him _is_ helping myself. I take a step towards Maverick, and this time, he doesn't back away. "I have an idea."

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

The boy from Three has no idea what he's getting himself into. I've been trying to ignore Maverick myself, but I've found myself keeping an eye on him, anyway, despite my best efforts. I shouldn't feel responsible. He made his own decision to be here. But there's a part of me that still feels sorry for him.

"It doesn't seem right, does it – them being in here with us." The voice belongs to a boy. One of the older boys with a number twelve on his shirt sleeve. He shakes his head a little. "My district partner – she's twelve years old. They're so young. It's frustrating – feeling like you should protect them … but knowing you can't."

Can't. I finger one of the throwing knives in my hand. _Can't_ makes it sound a bit better. A bit less like a choice. But that doesn't change the fact that it _is_ a choice. I could help Maverick. But that would mean hurting my own chances. And that's something I don't want to do. Something I won't do. But not something I _can't_ do.

So I simply shrug. "He chose to be here. He volunteered."

"So did you," the boy points out.

I can feel my face flush a little. "You remembered that?" Somehow, I didn't expect people to remember – or to care – who volunteered to be here and who was simply chosen. It shouldn't make much of a difference. But if _he_ remembers…

"Of course I remember. Who would forget something like that? And maybe for someone like him, it makes sense. Doesn't seem like he has much of a life to go back to – not much to lose. So how about you? Lost your family in the war?"

"My father."

"So you're here to … what? Avenge him?"

"No, of course not."

"So then it's the reward you want? The fame? The fortune?"

"No." Why does he care, anyway?

"Well, then, I guess you're just a sadistic monster who wants to kill?"

What? Why is _that_ the only other option? "No!"

"Well, you'd better just tell me, then, because I'm running out of ideas."

I glare at him. "I did it to show them I'm not afraid of them, okay? That _we_ don't have to be afraid of them – or these Games. I don't want to kill, but I'll do it. Not for them – for _me_."

For a moment, he looks like he's going to laugh. But this his expression softens, and the laughter dies before it leaves his lips, leaving only a hint of a smile behind. "I think that's very brave."

Brave. Yes, that's it. That's what I wanted to be. What I _want_ to be. "Thanks." What else am I supposed to say?

"I just got reaped," he shrugs. "Not as memorable, I suppose, but … well, maybe it doesn't really matter how we ended up here – not really. We're all here now."

That's what I was _trying_ to say earlier. I nod a little, turning back to the knives I was throwing at the target nearby. I fling it as hard as I can, but the handle simply crashes into the target, and the knife clatters uselessly to the floor.

I sigh as I turn around to see that the boy hasn't left yet. "Is there something you wanted?"

The boy nods. "I wanted to ask if you'd be interested in … an alliance."

"An alliance?"

"Well, _friends_ sounded a bit … well, not like something you would want to have in a fight to the death. But allies – I guess it sounded a bit more war-like. We can use a different word, if you want – I just thought—"

"What makes you think I would want to work with you in the first place?"

"This." The boy picks up one of the knives I've dropped and casually throws it in the direction of the target. The knife lodges itself in one of the outer rings, but at least he hit the target – which is more than I've done all day.

I nod a little. "All right, that's interesting enough – but why would you want to work with me?"

The boy smirks. "I have to admit, that depended on the answer to the first question – about why you volunteered. Certainly wouldn't want to end up with someone who's going to stab me in the back just for fun. But someone who's not afraid of the Capitol, someone who's not afraid to kill, someone who's not afraid to volunteer and risk her life just to prove a point – that sounds like someone I'd want as an ally."

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

That's only half true, of course. Not being afraid to kill – that's useful. Beneficial for both of us. Not being afraid of the Capitol – that's admirable, at least. But while bravery is one thing, volunteering for what will probably be your death just to prove you're not afraid – that's a bit questionable, at the very least.

But I don't say that. Because there are only so many options for who to ask about an alliance. There are a few groups already forming, but none that I want to join. The pair from Seven and the boy from Four will almost certainly end up getting themselves targeted by any loyalists in the arena. And the loyalists – the girls from Two and Four – have made themselves the perfect targets for any rebels.

Then there's Clarisse's district partner and the boy from Three, who are both young and, frankly, don't seem all that useful. The girl from Six and the boy from Eleven – a druggie and a cripple. Their district partners – both young and not all that skilled, from the look of it. Not likely to get any attention from the Capitol.

So who does that leave? My own district partner, a twelve-year-old. The pair from Ten, who have been joined at the hip since entering the training center yesterday. The girl seems capable, but the boy – it's clear he's a nervous wreck. The pair from Nine – an older girl who for whatever reason seems intent on staying with her thirteen-year-old district partner. The pair from Five, maybe…

But something seems a bit dangerous, I guess, about joining up with a district pair. If it came down to it, they would probably help each other, rather than me. So that leaves a handful of other tributes who seem unattached to their district partners, but Clarisse … she seems like the best option. As long as she doesn't tell the _audience_ that she volunteered to prove we don't have to be afraid of the Capitol, maybe they'll assume – as I did – that she actually _wants_ to be here.

And that might hold their interest. Because of the volunteers – her and her district partner, the boy from Four, and the girl from Nine – two were clearly rebels. One volunteered to get away from … whatever her district partner wanted to get away from. And then there's her. Someone who just wanted to be brave.

And that'll be useful in the arena – for a time. Which is why what I said was only half true. She's someone I would want as an ally, yes – but not forever. Eventually, she'll realize exactly what she volunteered for. And once that sinks in, she'll either lose it completely or become even more determined to get out alive. And either one of those things could be dangerous.

But going it alone – that could be just as dangerous, if not more so. Especially since so many of the other tributes seem to have found _someone_. Even if it's not someone particularly useful…

"And you seem like someone I'd want as an ally," Clarisse decides at last. "What's your name?"

"Elijah. And you're Clarisse." I remembered that, too, of course. Chances are, everyone will remember her name – the name of the Hunger Games' very first volunteer.

But not its first Victor. Not if I want to survive. If I want to get out, eventually, she has to die. Everyone has to die. Rebels and loyalists. Eighteen-year-olds and twelve-year-olds. I have to be willing to kill any of them in order to make it home.

Even her. Just because we're allies doesn't mean that'll last forever. It can't. And surely she knows that. Everyone knows that. All the little groups that are forming – they know they can't help each other forever. Don't they?

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it doesn't matter whether they know it or not. Whether Clarisse knows it or not. All that matters is that _I_ know it. That I'm willing to do what has to be done.

And I am. Or, at least, I've tried to tell myself that I am. But the truth is that I'm still hoping I won't have to. That the others will take care of killing each other, and I'll only have to kill … well, one or two. The ones I wouldn't mind killing.

But who would that be? The loyalists, maybe. They supported the Capitol during the war, after all. But even _they_ didn't choose to be here. They were reaped, just the same as the rest of us. Betrayed by the very people they had pledged their loyalty to. Maybe they don't show it, but, deep down, they have to be angry about that.

The volunteers, maybe. The ones who chose to be here. Maybe I wouldn't mind killing them. They chose to be in a fight to the death, after all. What does that say about how much their lives are worth to them? But that would mean going up against trained rebels. And Clarisse. And a thirteen-year-old kid. Are those really people I want to kill?

I shake my head, turning my attention back to the knives in my hand. I fling another one at the target, this time striking a little closer to the center. I don't _want_ to kill anyone. None of us – or, at least, very few of us – do. The others are probably thinking the same thing. Hoping most of the tributes will just … die somehow. Trying to work out which of the others would be okay to kill.

Maybe it'll be easier, once we're in the arena. Once some of the others start fighting. Maybe it'll be easier then to see them as competition, rather than a bunch of scared kids trying to get a handle on unfamiliar weapons. Maybe. I hope so. Because, if not, I don't know how I'm going to kill any of them.

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

How could any of us even think about killing each other? How could they expect us to? My mind races as the bell rings for lunch. Only four or five of the other tributes seem like they might be ready to fight. The rest of us? We're just a bunch of kids. We don't have any training – any more than we've been able to pick up in the last day and a half. We don't _want_ to kill each other.

But, eventually, not wanting to isn't going to be enough. Eventually, it'll just be the twenty-four of us in the arena, and we'll have to start killing each other. We'll be _expected_ to start killing each other. But I can't help but wonder … what if we don't? What if none of us really want to fight each other? What if we simply refuse to kill?

That's what Sienna says is going to happen – once the loyalists and the openly rebellious tributes eliminate each other, at least. How are they going to force the rest of us to kill each other? How are they going to convince us to fight?

Part of me hopes she's right. That once the larger threats are gone, the tributes who are left will be more reasonable. That maybe we'll be able to convince the Capitol to let us all go. But the rest of me knows better. The Capitol didn't win the war by being willing to negotiate. They won the war by stamping out any sort of resistance, and they're not going to back down now. They said one Victor – one tribute survives. And that's the way it's going to be.

So now I have to figure out how it's going to be me. How I'm going to live when twenty three other tributes are going to die. It would make a good story – and I'm good with stories. I know how it begins. I know how I want it to end. Now I just have to figure out how a thirteen-year-old kid from District Nine is going to beat the odds.

Because the odds are definitely stacked against me. There are only a handful of tributes around my age. The rest are older and stronger. But I do have one thing going for me, I suppose. Sienna hasn't left my side since training began. Does that mean we're going to be working together? Does that mean she's going to protect me?

And I suppose it makes sense. If she's convinced that the only ones who are going to want to fight are the hard-core rebels and loyalists, then maybe it makes sense to just join up with anyone who's convenient. She has no reason to avoid me. No reason to think that I'm going to be a burden and drag her down, because she doesn't think it'll get to that point.

But it will. And, when it does … what happens then? What happens when she realizes she's wrong? What happens when she pieces together that, in order for her to go home, the rest of us have to die? What happens when she realizes _I_ have to die?"

"Peter?"

The voice startles me. I glance up from my lunch to see that one of the trainers – a lady with bright yellow hair and pale blue skin – has taken a seat next to me. Sienna looks alarmed, but I simply smile back. "That's me."

The woman grabs me by the shoulders, as if she can't quite believe her eyes. "So it _is_. My sister Vivienne is one of your stylists. She told me _all_ about you – how you were a spy during the rebellion, how you pretended to be a double agent, how you were really helping the Capitol. I just wanted to say … that is _so_ brave. For someone so young to be so dedicated to a cause – I'm impressed." She ruffles my hair quickly before scampering off – probably to tell the other trainers.

Sienna is staring at me. "You were a spy?"

 _Shit. Think fast. Think fast._ "Of course not." I chuckle a little. "I just thought it would be a good way to get them on my side. The more people are supporting you, the better – right?"

It's only half true, of course. At the time, I wasn't worried about getting people to support me. I wasn't worried about anything, really. I was just trying to come up with a good story. To pass the time. But, now that I think about it, it certainly doesn't hurt to have my stylists on my side. And if all it takes is one little lie…

Because it _is_ a lie, of course – and not one I intend to lose Sienna over. If all it takes to win back her trust is to tell the truth, then I'll gladly do that, too. Because as much as it helps to have a few Capitolites on my side, the truth is that they won't be in the arena with me. Sienna will. And I have no intention of getting on her bad side.

But she simply shakes her head. "I don't want _their_ support."

I can't help smiling a little. "Yes, you do. Think it through for a moment. If you really want the Capitol to have to call the Games off, who do you have to win over? The people in the districts? They already think the Games are a terrible idea. If we really want the Capitol to stop the Games once the rebels and the loyalists have dealt with each other, then we need to convince the people in the Capitol. Not the politicians or the generals or the Gamemakers, but the ordinary people like her. If enough of _them_ demand that the Capitol stop the Games … well, they might just have a chance."

They don't. We don't. But as long as Sienna keeps believing that we do, she'll do everything in her power to make sure that it happens. And, as horrible as it sounds, I can use that. As long as she's focused on keeping the peace, on making sure that none of us "normal" tributes kill each other, then she won't suspect me. She won't think of me as a hindrance or as a burden. Not until it's too late.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

Maybe it's too late, after all. Too late to hope that the Capitol will call this all off. Too late to think that it isn't really going to happen. Because if any sort of stalemate relies on the opinions of ordinary Capitol citizens … then we've already lost.

Maybe Peter doesn't realize it. Maybe he really thinks that, deep down, the Capitolites are just like us. And maybe, if you go deep enough, they are. But that similarity is buried beneath years and years of privilege. Years of being able to do anything they want, whenever they want, without caring about who it hurts.

So how can we really expect them to care that twenty-three of us are going to die in the arena? Dozens of people die every _day_ in the districts, and they never lift a finger to help us. Why would they step in now? Why would they demand that _we_ be spared, when they've never cared about anyone like us in their lives? Why should we be any different?

And maybe … well, maybe that's the point. What makes these Games any worse than the fact that hundreds of people are going to die of hunger or cold or disease in the districts while they're happening? What makes us any different than the children who die every day from neglect? What makes us worth saving? What makes _me_ worth saving?

I turn my attention back to my meal. No. That's the wrong question to be asking. Of course we're worth saving. The real question we should be asking is, _Why aren't the others worth saving, too?_ Why aren't we as concerned with helping them as we are with figuring out how to save our own lives?

Maybe it's a matter of control. I have at least some control over what's going to happen in the Games. I can control what I'm going to do, and that, in turn, will have some effect on what others do in the arena. But as for what happens in the districts? Well, I suppose I have some little impact on what happens in District Nine. But the others? I've never seen another district. The only people I know from other districts are the other people in this room.

And the truth is, I haven't really gotten to know any of them except Peter. Most of them don't really seem interested in talking. And I suppose that makes sense. If they all believe that we're going to end up killing each other, then it's probably better not to get attached. But if there's going to be any chance of ending this peacefully…

And maybe that's what's stopping me, in the end. Do I really believe there's a chance for a peaceful resolution to any of this? If we refuse to fight, the Capitol can simply slaughter however many of us are left. No one will be able to stop them. Nothing will be able to save us. Does that mean we have to try to save ourselves? That _I_ have to try to save myself? And does that mean being willing to let everyone else die?

No, not just being willing to let them die. Being willing to kill them. If I want to get out of this alive, I have to be willing to kill. Maybe it's taken me a little longer to reach that conclusion, but I'm all the more certain of it now. This is happening. There's no way to stop it. And I have to be ready to fight.

Peter glances up at me, his voice anxious. "You're not upset, are you? That I lied to them?" His voice is thin and shaky, as if he's worried that I'm going to abandon him just because he told the stylists a story he thought might win them over.

"Of course I'm not upset." And I'm not. He's doing what he can to survive – just like any of us. I might have done the same, if I'd thought of it. "Actually, it was pretty clever." His smile starts to return, and I can't help but smile, too.

It's not fair – the fact that he's here. Him, the little girl from Twelve, the boys from One and Three … it's not fair, expecting them to fight alongside older tributes. Alongside people who actually fought in the war. The only advantage Peter really has is that people might be a bit more hesitant to kill him. That maybe they'll go after tributes who are a bigger threat first, and ignore him for a while.

And, as much as I hate to admit it … maybe that's why I've stayed with him. Alone, I might be considered a threat. I'm one of the older tributes in the arena. I'm no soldier, but I'm definitely better equipped to be here than most of the tributes. Alone, I might be a target – someone to get rid of as quickly as possible. But if I've established myself as someone who's helping a thirteen-year-old – maybe even protecting him – then I immediately become less of a concern. They don't need to be worried about me.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

I'm not sure whether to be annoyed or grateful that no one seems to be worried about me. Elijah has already found someone else to work with and doesn't seem the least bit concerned about the fact that he's left me on my own. And maybe that's fair. It's not as if he really knows me. Not as if we're close. We just happen to be from the same district – that's all. Why would that mean he should care more about me than the other tributes in the arena?

No one else seems particularly concerned about me, either – for good or bad. Even the other younger tributes have found _someone_ to help them. The boys from One and Three seem to have teamed up. The girl from Eleven is working with the boy from Six. The boy from Nine is still with his district partner – and neither has shown any signs of leaving the other.

And maybe I should be doing the same – looking for someone to help me – but something keeps holding me back. Alone, I'm not a threat. Alone, the other tributes might ignore me, underestimate me – for a while, at least. As soon as I join up with someone, I become that much more dangerous.

And for what? Protection? Do any of them really think that, when it comes down to it, any of us will choose someone else's life over our own? Are any of them really blind enough to believe that these little groups – these alliances – are actually going to last?

No, they'll last as long as it's convenient. As long as the other person is being somewhat useful. But as soon as the others start realizing they're safer alone, they'll separate. They'll abandon each other.

So maybe it's better to not have anyone. If I don't have anyone to start off with, then there's no one for me to lose. Because, eventually, if I want to win, anyone I was working with would have to die. Maybe I'd even have to be the one to kill them. And I don't know if I could do that – physically or mentally.

I head back to the edible plants station once I'm done with my lunch. It's seemed like a safe place to be. There aren't many people interested in plants, but … well, if the station's here, then it means there are probably going to be plants in the arena. And eating the wrong thing could get me killed as quickly as another tribute could.

Maybe even more quickly. Because I don't _have_ to get into a fight with another tribute – not if I can avoid it, not at first. But I _do_ have to eat. Everyone has to eat. And the truth is that you don't exactly learn much about plants growing up in Twelve. A few weeds, maybe, growing in the dirt along the paths around town. A few of the roots and nuts that are sold in the market. But other than that…

For the last few hours, though, it seems that all I've learned is how little I really know. There are more plants here – more leaves, more berries, more bark and stems – than I'd ever imagined existing.

I glance around at the other tributes who are making their way back to the survival stations after finishing their lunch. The two tributes from Ten have been rotating between the survival stations and the weapons stations all day, trying to get in some practice with both. The boy from Eleven and the girl from Six are sitting around a fire, practicing some knot-tying and giggling like a couple of schoolchildren. And the girl from Eleven is helping the boy from Six identify some bugs.

Maybe that's the real reason for finding someone to work with, I suppose. Tributes from certain districts are more likely to have some sort of experience with plants. Seven, Nine, Ten, Eleven. But what do I have to offer in return?

"It's frustrating, isn't it – how everyone else seems to have found someone so easily?"

I whirl around, startled, to see the girl from Eight. How long has she been standing there? I can feel my face flushing. "How do you know I don't _want_ to be alone?" I shoot back. "You don't know me!"

The older girl lets out a quiet laugh, as if it's some sort of joke. As if this whole thing is really the sort of game that the Capitol seems to think it is. "Of course I don't," she agrees. "But I do know a thing or two about these." She picks up one of the leaves I've been studying. "I wouldn't eat these ones. They're poisonous – and not very quick, either."

I can't help taking the bait. "How do you know?"

"I helped out in a morgue during the war – saw quite a few people who died from this. The soldiers would line their weapons with it. That way, even if an injury wasn't fatal, the victim would still die. Slowly, painfully. Not a good way to die."

I scoff. "Are there any good ways?"

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

Maybe she's right. Maybe there aren't any good ways to die – or any bad ones. Maybe one is just as effective as another. Some of the bodies that came through the morgue while I was there were cleaner than others. Some were thinner. Some younger, some older. Some richer, some poorer. But, in the end, they were all just as dead.

So maybe it doesn't make a difference – not really – whether you die young or old, rich or poor, content with your life or angry at the world. Maybe death is the only constant in a world where everything seems to be unstable, changing, shifting from one thing to the next. Most people fear death, but, when it comes down to it, it's the one thing we're all really certain of.

I don't say any of that, of course. Not to the girl in front of me. What would be the point? Something like that might scare her, or offend her, and there's no point in doing either.

Because as much as I might try to tell myself that there's no difference between dying old and dying young, it still doesn't seem right for her to be here. For any of us to be here. Dying is one thing, but forcing so many children to kill each other … it's wrong. And it's not just wrong because twenty-three of us are going to die. It's wrong because one of us is going to live.

And maybe … maybe that's the person we should actually feel sorry for. One of us is going to have to go on living, knowing what happened here. One person is going to have to live for years – live knowing that they killed. That twenty-three tributes – twenty-three _children_ – died in order for them to live.

I don't know if I could live with that. There's a part of me that doesn't even _want_ that person to be me. A part that realizes that maybe dying in the Games would be easier – and certainly simpler – than trying to live what that knowledge, that regret.

Does that mean that I won't fight? That I won't kill? I … I honestly don't know. Which feels strange. After years of telling people that they don't really know me, the thought that maybe I don't really know _myself_ as well as I'd thought … it's a bit unnerving, to say the least.

I _do_ know that I wouldn't have it in me to kill without a reason. To kill for sport, for fun, the way they want us to. Maybe I could kill to defend myself. To defend someone else. But not simply for the pleasure of it.

And looking around the room, I suspect most of the others feel the same way. It's one thing to fight back if you're attacked. It's quite another to be the one to _start_ the fight. Which raises the question: _Who will be the one to start the fight?_

There are a couple natural candidates, of course. The ones who have been trained as soldiers. The ones who fought during the war – on either side. The Capitol will be expecting that. But will they be the only ones?

I'm honestly not sure. And that uncertainty … I have to admit, there's something appealing about it. Something almost mesmerizing. Everything is so undecided, so unclear.

I can't help a little smile as Tullia turns back to her plants. I head back to the shelter-building station, which is empty at the moment. Most of the tributes have made their way to the weapons stations. Even the ones who were a bit more hesitant yesterday have decided that, once it comes down to it, weapons are going to be more useful.

And maybe they're right. But how much are any of us really going to learn in three days? Certainly not enough to stand a chance against someone with _real_ training. No, all they're really doing is letting the other tributes – and the Capitol – know that, for now, they're willing to at least think about fighting.

Which is a good idea, I suppose – letting the Gamemakers know that they're willing to play along. But they're also giving each other some idea of their abilities. And that might _not_ be such a good idea.

Not that I have any abilities I'm trying particularly hard to keep hidden. I'm not a soldier. I'm not even a plant expert. I just happen to know a few of the more common poisons the Capitol used to kill people. But poisons are useless unless you can get close enough to use them. And getting close enough means the other tributes also have a chance to kill _you_.

So it's a game. Get close enough to do some damage, but stay far enough away to avoid getting hurt. Mind games – not exactly the sort of thing I'm cut out for. I've always preferred to keep my distance. Live and let live. But that's exactly the opposite of what we're supposed to be doing here.

What we're _supposed_ to be doing. Those are their rules. Not mine. That's the game they _want_ us to play. And if we don't play along…

Then we die. But the thought of death has never really scared me. Which gives me an advantage. They have nothing to threaten me with. I don't have to play their game. Or, at least, I don't have to play by their rules. I don't have to try to win. And I don't have to let them win, either.


	15. Work Together

**Work Together**

" _People work together when it suits 'em. They're loyal when it suits 'em. They love each other when it suits 'em – and they kill each other when it suits 'em."_

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

Nearly everyone arrives at the training center early today. And maybe that makes sense. It's our last day of training, our last day to try to cram as much knowledge as we can into our heads before we have to use what we've learned. Before we have to hope we learned enough to survive.

To survive. But not just to survive. To fight. To kill. I've been studying mostly at the survival stations for the past two days, occasionally trying out a few of the smaller, lighter weapons. I've gotten pretty good at making slings, which could be useful, I suppose. If I can't get my hands on a better weapon, at least they're easy to make.

We have no real way of knowing, after all, what sort of weapons there are going to be. I guess we've all been assuming there _will_ be weapons of some sort, since otherwise there would be little point in having us train with them. But how do we get them? Will they just give us each a weapon at the start? Will we have to find them? Make them? They haven't really said, so I suppose the best course of action is to prepare for anything.

Which means practicing with a little of everything. Smaller, lighter weapons naturally seem better for someone my size, but if I can get my hands on something bigger and deadlier, knowing how to use it would be a huge advantage. So I make my way over to the spear station, where the girl from Three is practicing. Nearby, the boy from Two is smashing a dummy with a club. Hopefully, neither of them will notice me…

"Hey there." The boy from Two smiles a little. "Want to have a go?" He picks up a club from a nearby pile and tosses it to me, then nods at the dummy. "Go on, give it a whack."

I glance around. "Where's the trainer?"

"Not here yet," the boy shrugs. "Imagine his face when he comes back and sees all the dummies destroyed. Come on."

I stare at him for a moment. Is he trying to make this _fun_? See how many dummies we can bash to pieces before the trainer gets back? Does he think this is a game?

On the other hand … well, where's the harm? It's practice, and if he wants to pretend it's a game, that's his business. I give the club a swing, but it's heavier than I thought and simply bounces off the dummy's stomach.

"A bit harder than that," the other boy suggests. "Picture someone you don't like, and pretend you're swinging at them."

The thought makes my stomach churn. I honestly can't think of anyone I hate _that_ much. "Who were you picturing?" The question slips out before I realize how personal it probably is. "If you don't mind me asking," I quickly add.

The boy hesitates for a moment, as if deciding whether or not he wants to tell me. "During the war, we were as loyal as anyone else," he says quietly. "But my mother … she was … unpopular with the wrong people. They framed her, told the Peacekeepers she was a rebel. The Peacekeepers came to our house one night – killed her right in front of us. I … I picture that."

"The Peacekeepers?"

"Sometimes. But mostly the people who framed her. I imagine I'm attacking them – or _their_ loved ones. _Their_ mothers. _Their_ families." He looks away. "I guess that sounds horrible."

"No." The voice catches me by surprise; it came from the girl behind me. The girl from Three, who quickly drives a spear into one of the nearby dummies. "Actually, it sounds … human. Probably the most human thing I've heard in days." She holds out her hand to the other boy. "Carina."

"Vance. And this is…" He turns to me.

"Kennedy," I answer.

Carina nods. "Well, boys, I agree with Vance. Let's get to work." She turns her attention to one of the dummies and starts tearing into it with her spear. Vance does the same, smashing away at a second dummy with his club. I quickly join in – not because there's anyone in particular I want to picture smashing to bits, but because it's quickly becoming clear that these two would make a good group to be a part of … and I have no intention of letting that opportunity to.

So I start smashing, and I picture … well, it's not just one person. It's the Capitol. It's the rebels. It's everyone who might be responsible for the Capitol's decision to start these Games. It's the Peacekeepers onstage during the reaping, the Capitol woman who chose my name, the stylists and the Gamemaker and the president.

It's both sides of the war. The Capitol, for the destruction they caused. The rebels, for the way they shunned my family for refusing to fight for their lost cause. It's the soldiers, the generals – anyone who was involved. By the time we're finished, the dummies have been torn to shreds, and I'm breathing hard. But there's another sound coming from my throat – a wry chuckle that catches the others' attention. "What is it?" Vance asks.

I can't help laughing. "I guess I hate more people than I thought."

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

The trainer isn't as angry as I thought he would be. He simply smiles a little when he sees the carnage. "Looks like you three have been busy."

 _You three._ As if we're already a group. A team of sorts. I glance at Carina, who's smiling, satisfied. At Kennedy, who's still laughing a little. Maybe we _do_ make a good team, even if it's not quite the group I was imagining.

Exactly what I _was_ imagining, I'm not entirely sure. Gardenia found someone to work with almost instantly, so there was a part of me that was frustrated, earlier this morning, that I still hadn't managed to find anyone who seemed to want to work with me. But now, everything seems to be falling into place. Not only one, but _two_ tributes are on my side.

No, not on my side. Not really. That's not how this works. Just like I'm not really on _their_ side. I don't want one of them to win. I want _me_ to win. And behind all the laughter and the smiles, I'm sure they feel the same way. But for now – for a little while, at least – maybe we can help each other.

"Well, then, let's see how you do against a real person," the trainer offers. And he's got a point. We won't be smashing dummies in the arena. We'll be fighting people who can actually fight back. Carina adjusts her spear in her hands. Kennedy grips his club. I take a step closer to the trainer as he chooses a weapon of his own – a thick, sturdy staff that, despite its strength, I can't imagine being able to fend off three enemies at once.

But as I charge, he quickly blocks my blow, and Kennedy's. Carina strikes quickly, but he bats away her blow, then swipes at Kennedy's legs. Kennedy goes down quickly, but in that moment, I get a little closer to the trainer, only to find myself standing in Carina's way. She moves her spear aside, but, as she does, the trainer swings his staff into my legs, throwing me off-balance. Soon, I'm lying on the floor next to Kennedy as Carina and the trainer trade a few blows before he manages to knock the spear from her hands.

The trainer nods a little as he helps us to our feet. "So … what went wrong?"

I pick up my club, ready for another round. "We were too slow?"

"We got in each other's way," Carina offers.

The trainer nods. "What else?"

 _What else?_ Isn't that enough to make things go terribly wrong? But it's Kennedy who offers a suggestion. "We chose the wrong weapons."

The trainer smiles a little. "Care to explain that farther?"

Kennedy hesitates, but then answers. "Well, if you have a staff, and I have a club … a staff reaches farther. You can hit me before I get close enough to do anything."

The trainer nods. "Good. Which is why Carina lasted a bit longer than you two. So … what makes a good weapon to choose?"

"Length?" Carina shrugs.

The trainer nods. "Always?"

"I don't know why not—"

"What if you're in a tight spot?" Kennedy suggests. "Like a … a tunnel. Or a small room. You might not have enough room to swing a spear."

The trainer nods. "Good. So what would you choose then?"

Kennedy shrugs and taps the club in his hands. "One of these?"

"Maybe," the trainer answers. "What's the disadvantage?"

"It's heavy?" I suggest.

"Exactly. You'll tire quicker. Which is fine as long as you can finish off your opponent rather quickly. But if you can't – or if you have to fight again soon afterwards – you'll be physically weaker. So what might you want, instead?"

"A knife?" Kennedy suggests. "Or a dagger?"

"I'd say a dagger rather than a knife," Carina offers. "More reach."

"True," the trainer nods. "What would be the advantage of a knife?"

I consider for a moment before answering. "They're easier to hide."

"That's one, certainly. Any time an opponent can't _see_ that you have a weapon, you have an advantage. Knives are also a bit more versatile. You can throw them. They're easier to hunt with. You can use them to clean game, to cut rope – and a bit more easily than a dagger. They're a bit less clumsy, a bit more precise." He smiles a little. "So what's the lesson?"

I shake my head. "That this is a lot more complicated than I thought."

The trainer chuckles a little. "I suppose. But the real lesson is that there isn't one right answer. The right weapon depends on the situation, on the person, on the moment – so it's best to have a little experience with everything. So…" He hands Carina a knife, gives her spear to Kennedy, and hands me some sort of curved sword. "Let's try this again."

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

By the time the bell rings for lunch, the three of us are exhausted. But it's a good sort of exhausted. Certainly a better sort than I've felt in the last couple days. For the first time, everything seems to be coming together. I'm getting a handle on the different types of weapons. I have two … I'm not really sure what to call them, I suppose – Vance and Kennedy. Partners? Teammates? Friends?

No. No, not friends. We can't afford to have friends. To _be_ friends. Not when they're going to have to die, eventually, in order for me to win. To live. They have to die, along with everyone else in the arena.

But that doesn't mean I have to be the one to kill them. That I have to take part in their deaths. And it doesn't mean that we can't have some fun along the way.

I shake my head as the three of us settle down to eat. Fun certainly isn't something I was expecting to find here, preparing for the Games. But I have to admit that the last couple hours _have_ been rather fun. Tiring, maybe. Frustrating, certainly. But also undeniably fun. For a few moments, the three of us could forget – at least a little bit – why we're actually here, and focus on working together.

Together. But how much will we actually be able to work together once we're in the arena? No one's really explained exactly how this is going to work. These little teams … groups … alliances that we've been forming – will we be able to keep them, to stay with them, once we're in the arena? Or will they find some way to split us apart?

The more I think about it, the more I realize how little they've explained about the Games. And maybe that makes sense. If they want us to be afraid of the Games, after all, the less they explain, the better. It's easier to keep us afraid of something if we don't fully understand what's going to happen.

And, as much as I hate admitting it, I _am_ afraid. Maybe it's nothing to be ashamed of, but it still feels wrong admitting it. As if letting them know I'm afraid will somehow affect my chances.

So I keep it to myself. I smile and laugh along with Vance and Kennedy as we swap strategy ideas over lunch, decide which weapons we like the best. Vance still seems partial to the club that he began the day with, and I have to admit, it's a good weapon for him. He doesn't have any training, but he has a more muscular build naturally, despite his height. He can put a lot of force behind a blow when he wants to.

 _When he wants to._ That's the real problem, I suppose. He was doing fine against the dummies, but as soon as we started fighting the trainer, it was obvious he was holding back. That he didn't want to hurt a real person – even though it was pretty clear he wouldn't be able to. So once we're in the arena … then what? He'd been pretending the dummies were the people who framed his mother for treason, but the other tributes in the arena … they never did anything to his mother. To him.

To us. Because, if I'm being honest, I was probably holding back a little, too. I could pretend that the dummies were the Peacekeepers who hurt my sister, who locked her up in the asylum. But when I'm fighting a real person – a real person who's never done anything to me – will the same strategy still work? Will I still be able to imagine them as the people who have harmed me and my family? Or will I only see children? Children who, like me, just want to survive?

I turn my attention back to my meal. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that they're just children, that they never did anything to hurt me. I never did anything to them, either, and they'll be trying to kill me. Won't they?

Maybe. Maybe they will. Maybe they won't. Maybe I'll have to be the one to make the first move, and that thought scares me more than I want to admit. If I try hard enough, I can picture myself killing someone if they attack me first. If they're trying to kill me. But being the one to _start_ the fight – to actually _want_ to kill another person – I can't imagine that, no matter how hard I try.

Vance seems to be on the same page there, but Kennedy … Kennedy, I'm not so sure about. He didn't seem to be holding back as much against the trainer. Not that he hurt him – or even that he wanted to – but he certainly seems a lot more willing, a lot angrier, than the boy who wandered over to the weapons station earlier this morning.

And maybe that's a good thing. Because _someone's_ going to have to start the fight. And, eventually, no matter _who_ starts it, we're all going to end up fighting each other. Killing each other.

So maybe it _is_ better to be the people to start the fight. Maybe that would earn us the Capitol's attention. Their support.

As if that's something I want. As if that's something any of us _should_ want. The support of the people who spent the last three years trying to kill us by the thousands, to grind us back into submission. The people who are forcing us to fight in the first place. I shouldn't want their support. But I do. I have to. Because that's the only way I'm going to live.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

It seems Crescent and I aren't the only ones who like destroying things. The boys from Two and Eight and the girl from Three spend a good part of the morning tearing apart dummies. Crescent and I thought about going over to join them, but … well, three's a crowd by itself, I suppose, and they were already attracting enough attention.

Which is something Crescent and I have been trying not to do. We've been together since the first day, moving from station to station, trying a little of this and a little of that. Getting our feet wet everywhere, so to speak. You never know what might end up being useful.

Because everyone's been a bit … well, vague … on exactly what's going to be in the arena. I mean, if you look at the stations, you get the impression the arena's going to be some sort of forest-river-desert-field combo covered in bugs and animals and trees and littered with swords and spears and knives and bows and …

It all just seems a bit … cluttered. As if they don't want us to have any real idea of what to expect. Maybe some of the things we're expecting will be there, and others won't. How much of this is simply here to throw us off? To make us think we're ready, when, in reality, we have no idea what we're going to be up against?

One thing about what we're facing, of course, is absolutely certain: each other. The other tributes are the one thing we can be certain will be in the arena. The biggest variables, in the end, are the other people who will be trying to kill us. The other people we'll have to kill.

I glance around the room at the groups that have formed. Mostly groups of two, but a couple groups of three. The boys from Two and Eight and the girl from Three are sitting together, chatting and laughing. The other group of three – the boy from Four and the pair from Seven – doesn't seem quite as eager. They're keeping their distance from the other tributes, seated at one of the tables farthest from the training stations.

On the other end of the room, the girls from Two and Four are watching them, talking in hushed voices. Maybe planning something. I glance at Crescent. Is that what we should be doing – planning our next move? But how can we really plan anything when we have no idea what the arena is going to be like, no real concept of what's going to happen once we're there?

The other groups are pairs of two, as well. A few are district partners, like Crescent and me. The pair from Nine seem to be working together, as do the pair from Ten. The boys from One and Three. The girl from One and the boy from Twelve. The girl from Six and the boy from Eleven. The boy from Six and the girl from Eleven.

A few tributes, too, are still sitting alone. The girl from Twelve. The girl from Eight. But everyone else seems to have found someone to work with.

You have to wonder whether the Gamemakers were expecting that. Whether it even makes sense, once you really think about it. On the one hand, having someone on your side would certainly be useful in a fight. But on the other hand…

On the other hand, how can any of us really trust each other? How can I trust Crescent? How can she trust me? Each of us knows the other is going to have to die if we want to win. How long can that trust – this fragile alliance – really last?

I guess I'll just have to hope it lasts long enough. Long enough to keep me alive until enough of the other tributes are gone that I can make it on my own. And I'll just have to hope that if it ends – no, _when_ it ends – I'm able to walk out of it alive.

That's a lot of hoping. A lot more hoping than I'm used to doing. Once we're in the arena, of course, it won't be enough to just leave it up to hope. To chance. Crescent and I may be partners, but I'll be watching her. And she'll be watching me.

I'm sure that she already is, after all. That neither of us fully trusts the other. And why should we? It's been less than a week since the reaping. We barely know each other. We just happen to be from the same district. We both just happened to realize that working together could help both of us during the Games. We have no real reason to consider each other friends.

Do we?

But the truth is that there's a part of me – a part I'm trying to ignore – that realizes that Crescent is the closest thing I've had to a friend in … well, it's been a long time. Before my mother left. Before my father died. Before the war.

It seems strange, maybe, that Crescent would be the one to fill that gap. That here, getting ready for a fight to the death, I would find someone whose company I actually enjoy. Strange that, when we both know it can't last, we both seem to appreciate having the other around.

And maybe … well, maybe it's _because_ we know it won't last that we can get as close as we have. Neither of us has any delusions that this friendship is going to last forever. But no friendship ever does, anyway. So we can skip right over the part of the conversation where we pretend we're going to be best buddies for the rest of our lives, and jump right to the part where we help each other survive, and have fun with whatever time we have left. And maybe … well, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

* * *

 **Crescent Nerine, 17  
** **District Five**

It looks like the two of us are going to end up working together, after all. And maybe it's a good thing that's it's just going to be the pair of us – Icho and me. Any sort of a larger group might attract attention. Going it alone would put either of us at a disadvantage against any pair of tributes that might happen to find us. But two … two seems about right.

And one person is about as many as I want to trust. Not that I trust Icho – not really. Certainly not any more than he trusts me. We both know what's at stake. In order for one of us to make it home, the other will have to die. That's the one rule the Capitol has made perfectly clear. Only one tribute survives. Only one Victor.

But how we get there … well, that seems to be up to us. If we want to team up with other tributes along the way, eliminate the competition together, that's our choice. At least, it seems so. No one has come along to tell us that forming groups isn't allowed. And it seems as if most of the tributes have realized it's an advantage.

At least, I hope it's an advantage. There's a downside to being in a group, too. If one member of the group gets targeted – for whatever reason – they'll probably end up dragging the whole group down with them. The group of rebels, for example. The boy from Four and the pair from Seven. The boys seem more like soldiers, like they fought in the war, but, by teaming up with them, the girl's put herself at risk.

So what about Icho? He certainly doesn't seem like a soldier, but he hasn't exactly said anything about what he did during the war. So many people in the district were connected to the rebellion in some way…

But surely the Capitol can't be intent on killing everyone who was in some way _connected_ to the rebellion. That would be absurd – and wouldn't leave too many tributes to choose from for an appropriate Victor. Then again, I _would_ be one of those few. My family, if you want to call it that, managed to stay neutral during the war, so if the Capitol is _really_ that intent on killing off rebels, chances are, I'll still be spared.

But that's no more under my control than if my parents had decided to support the rebels. Most of the children here – even the ones with rebel connections – can't have actively participated in the war. Or, if they did in some way, it was probably only because their parents had done the same. The Capitol can't really blame them for that. Can they?

 _Stupid._ Of course they can. The whole reason we're here is because the Capitol blames everyone in the districts – rebels or not – for the rebels' actions during the war. It doesn't matter to them that most of us had nothing to do with the rebellion. We're not here to punish us. We're here to punish our families, our friends, our districts. We're just the unlucky tools the Capitol is using to spread fear among the districts.

"Ready to get back to work?" Icho asks. I glance up to see that he's cleaned his plate. My lunch is only half-finished, but I haven't really been hungry today. Maybe it's the richness of the Capitol food. Maybe it's the lingering threat of the Games finally catching up to me and stealing my appetite.

Either way, I nod. "Sounds good." We head back – this time to the weapons stations – and sit down with a trainer who seems ridiculously eager to show us how to improvise a spear from a stick, a rock, and some twine. Icho and I listen as patiently as we can, but it all seems rather pointless. From the assortment of weapons we've been given to practice with, I'd been assuming that weapons would be provided in the arena. Sure, you can make a spear or a club out of a stick, but you can't exactly make a sword or a dagger – and there are plenty of those here.

But if they went through all the trouble to find someone who could teach us how to _make_ spears, then there's probably a reason. Maybe there will only be a limited number of weapons in the arena. Maybe they'll be hidden. Maybe only certain tributes will get them, and the rest of us will just have to make do with what we can find or make ourselves.

So Icho and I listen and do our best to follow along, and, after a while, each of us has a passable spear. The trainer smiles a little. "All right, then," she nods. "Let's see how well they work." She stands up, readying her own weapon. "Who wants to go first?"

"How about both of us?" I smirk, and immediately attack. The trainer quickly dodges both my blow and Icho's.

"Not bad," she concedes. "But you were aiming for my weapon. Aim for _me_."

I do. Or, at least, I try to. The trainer circles around, moving faster than I would have assumed she could at her age. After a few more rounds, both Icho and I are winded. The trainer smiles a little. "Not bad. You'll do fine against opponents who _aren't_ as trained as I am. Now try throwing them."

"Throwing them?" Icho repeats.

The trainer nods. "See how they do."

They don't. Icho's clatters to the floor almost immediately, way off target. Mine goes farther, but still misses the target by almost a meter. I shake my head. "You can't hit a target with these."

But even as I say it, the trainer's spear flies through the air and spears a perfect bulls-eye. She quickly retrieves both her spear and ours and settles back down onto the floor. "It's all in how you make them," she smiles. "Let me show you."

* * *

 **Felicity DeBrier, 14  
** **District Eleven**

"Attention, tributes! Attention!" a woman's voice rings through the training center. I glance up, only to see the Head Gamemaker – Minerva Hale – standing on the balcony, with her daughter Noelle alongside. "May I have your attention, please!"

For a moment, she sounds less like a Capitolite intent on sending us to our deaths in the arena and more like a schoolteacher trying to control a particularly rowdy classroom. I can't help smiling a little at the thought. I never particularly enjoyed school, but, right now, I would give anything to be back there. Back with my friends, my classmates … even my teacher.

Instead, we're stuck here, with this woman who, despite her smiles and her silly rainbow hair, is about to send us to our deaths in an arena. "You've all been working so hard," she beams, just like a teacher praising her five-year-old students' artwork. We've been working hard, yes, but how much have we really learned? "You've been working so hard," she repeats, "and I just wanted to let you know that, tomorrow, you'll have the chance to show just how much you've learned."

Tomorrow? Whispers spread through the crowd of tributes in the training center. Surely she doesn't mean that the _Games_ will be tomorrow. Our escort told us that there were going to be interviews tomorrow, and that the Games would begin the next day. They can't have changed that, can they?

"Tomorrow morning, each of you will be called in for a private session with a few of us Gamemakers. You will be given fifteen minutes to demonstrate what you've learned in the past few days. The Gamemakers will give each of you a score from one to twelve – scores that will be announced a few hours before your interviews with my daughter, Noelle." She lays a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"Because tomorrow will be such a _busy_ day," she continues, "the center will be closed promptly at midnight tonight – although, as always, you're free to leave before then. Get in some practice, get a good meal, and get some rest. You'll be glad you did. Any questions?"

"Yeah." The boy from Two takes a step forward. "What are you going to do with the scores? Do the tributes with the higher scores get some sort of advantage at the start of the Games, or—"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Minerva laughs. "The scores are a … gauge … a way of letting the audience know which of you are more promising, based on what you've learned in the last few days, and which of you … well, aren't." Her smile fades for a moment, but then quickly returns. "But you'll all have an equal chance once the Games begin – we've made sure of that."

An equal chance. That's a lie, and she knows it, but no one bothers saying so. How can anyone say that I have the same chance of winning as the pair of tributes who have been throwing spears at targets for the past half hour – and have finally managed to make a few bulls-eyes? How can anyone say that Aldous has the same chance as the boy who just spoke? Maybe he's not particularly intimidating, but at least he can _walk._ Aldous…

I glance over at my district partner, who seems a bit surprised by the sudden announcement – almost like a student who didn't realize there was going to be a quiz today. Maybe if he'd known there was going to be a test, some way of scoring our progress, he wouldn't have spent the last three days with Paean over at the fire-building station, with their funny-colored smoke and the knots they've been tying in patterns. Maybe if he'd tried a little harder…

Then what? I'm kidding myself if I think he would have done any better at the weapons stations. The only time he ventured over that way was to swipe one of the staffs to use as a crutch. If he actually tried to fight…

I shake the thought from my head. I'm not supposed to be worrying about Aldous. He gave me permission to look for allies elsewhere so that I _wouldn't_ spend my time worrying about him. Trying to help him. Trying to save him.

I turn to Horario, who nods as we head back to the knife station, where we've spent most of the day learning how to handle a variety of smaller weapons. Scalpels, hunting knives, pocketknives – all sorts of smaller blades. Easy to handle. Easy to conceal.

Maybe not the most effective in a fight, but let's be honest. I don't really stand much of a chance in a fair fight against … well, most of the other tributes. But if I can sneak up on them, catch them off-guard, then…

Then what? Even if I manage to catch a tribute off-guard – in their sleep, maybe – am I really going to be able to kill them? Would I really be able to take the knife I'm holding and … and cut their throat? Stab them in the chest? Try as I might, I can't picture myself doing anything of the sort.

But I'll have to. Maybe not like that, exactly, but, if I want to survive, I'll have to kill. And if I don't think I'll be able to kill anyone in a fair fight, then that's the alternative. It's not fair. It's not right. But in a fair fight, playing by the rules, I'll lose. And, now that it comes down to it … I don't want to lose. I don't want to die. And maybe it really is as simple as that.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

I can't shake the feeling that everything just got a lot more complicated. Private sessions with the Gamemakers. Scores. Interviews. There's a part of me that wants to scream, "Just throw us in the arena now!" But there's also a part of me that's eager for anything – _anything_ – that will delay the thought of the Games a little longer.

And that's the part that wins out, because Aubrey and I immediately start discussing exactly what we're going to show the Gamemakers. And I'm almost … well, almost _excited_ for the chance to show them what I've learned. That I'm not just the scared kid who spent the war hiding in the woods. I mean, that helped a bit, I guess. Taught me how to hunt, how to make a fire, what sorts of plants are good to eat. But I've learned so much more in the last three days. At least, I _think_ I have.

Aubrey seems a bit more hesitant. "I'm not sure we should," she says after a little while.

"Should what?"

"Show them how much we can do – what we're really capable of."

I turn my spear over in my hands. "Why not?"

"Because if we score well – and if the other tributes _know_ we score well – what will they think?"

"That we know what we're doing. They'll be afraid of us."

"Maybe. Or maybe they'll want to _target_ us. Take us out first. Maybe we should … well, hold back a bit."

I shake my head. "I don't think we'll do _that_ well. I mean, sure, we've learned a lot, but so has everyone else. Unless someone came in here as a fully-trained soldier, I don't think they're going to score high enough to really be a target. I mean, the Gamemakers know most of us don't really know what we're doing – or that we didn't a few days ago, at least."

She nods, as if that makes some sense. We've been watching the other tributes, after all. And, for the most part, they're doing well. Taking advantage of the time that we have. Sure, there are a few who don't seem to be taking it seriously. The boy from Eleven. The girl from Six. But most of them – most of _us_ – have been working our butts off trying to figure out how to survive in the arena.

And now is the time for it to pay off. Because if we _do_ score well, yes, the other tributes know it … but the audience knows it, too. And, from what the Head Gamemaker said, that's a good thing. Exactly how the audience might be able to help us isn't entirely clear, but it's obvious that tributes who are well-liked by the people watching will have some sort of advantage.

"You're probably right," Aubrey agrees, but she still doesn't sound certain. She glances around at the other tributes, at the Head Gamemaker and the Host who are still watching. What is she so worried about? She's starting to make _me_ nervous. Well, more nervous. Okay, I'm already nervous, but she's certainly not helping.

"What is it?" I ask. "What aren't you telling me?"

She shakes her head. "Not here. Not now. Later."

Later. Is she worried about them overhearing her? But when is she ever going to get the chance to tell me something without anyone listening? The Capitol almost certainly has our rooms bugged. If they're going to televise the Games, there will obviously have to be cameras. What is she so worried about?

I turn back to my weapon. Whatever it is, it's her problem – not mine. If she wants to hide something from the Gamemakers, that's her business. And if she wants to keep it secret from me … well, it's hard to blame her. We may be district partners. We may be working together. But that doesn't mean that we really trust each other. Does it? Should it?

Maybe. From the way she was looking around, she might have told me what was worrying her if not for the people watching. Does that mean that she trusts me? Or does it only mean she wants me to _think_ she trusts me? She knew they were watching, after all, without needing to look around. Is she toying with me?

 _Stop it. You'll get yourself all worked up._ How many times have I looked around to see if anyone is watching, even though I knew they were? That's a perfectly normal thing to do – isn't it? And whatever she wants to tell me, it's normal to want to keep it a secret from the Capitol. If she _does_ have some sort of skill that she's trying to hide…

Then it means she's _been_ hiding it. From me. From them. She's been holding back. But why? If it's something that would give her an advantage in the Games, if she knows how to fight, then—

 _Oh._ I glance up at Aubrey, and, for a moment, our eyes meet. She's afraid. But not of me. Not of what _I_ might do with that information. She's afraid of what the Capitol might do if they knew … if they knew that she fought during the war.

Because that's the only real answer. The only thing she would be that desperate to hide. The other rebel soldiers haven't exactly kept their allegiance a secret, but it's obvious that will get them targeted. The girls from Two and Four are probably going to go after anyone who's a known rebel. Does that mean they're going to target us?

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

It doesn't take Colt long to piece it together. Good. That'll save me the trouble of trying to find some time later when we're not being watched. When we're not being listened to.

I hate keeping it a secret, of course – the fact that I fought during the war. That I was a rebel. _Am_ a rebel. The war isn't over, after all. It's simply taken a different shape. But if I want to live to fight in that war again, then I have to keep my head down now. I have to get through this.

And, right now, that means lying. Hiding what I'm really capable of. Because the truth is, I've been holding back. Pretending to know nothing as the trainers show us the absolute basics of various weapons. Pretending to be impressed when Colt showed me how to start a fire. Pretending not to know how to make a basic shelter, or which plants are good to eat.

It's different for the others. The boys from Four and Seven. Memphis. Simon. The Capitol knows their names. The mayor's son who killed his father. The boy from Seven who led a band of rebels all the way to District Two. And the girl, Silver – the moment she decided to join them, she was bound to be labeled a rebel, as well.

And part of me envies the simplicity of it. Everyone knows where they stand. What they are. There's no way for them to hide. But me … I was never famous. I was never a leader. The higher-ups in the Capitol might have a list somewhere of every known rebel soldier, but normal, everyday Capitol citizens aren't going to know who I am. What I am. What I did.

Because the truth is, I didn't do anything special. I fought, but so did thousands of others – some even younger than me. I killed. I risked my life. But so did so many others – some of whom didn't live to tell about it. I didn't do anything extraordinary. But if the other tributes found out…

I clench my teeth as I finger the knife in my hands – a knife I know how to use perfectly well. Every time I try to justify my silence to myself, it sounds as if I'm afraid. Afraid of what they'll do. And I shouldn't be. I already survived a war. A _real_ war, with actual trained soldiers trying to kill me. This shouldn't be any different. If anything, it should be easier. These aren't soldiers. They're children.

But that's exactly what makes it harder. During the war, I knew who I was killing. The people on the other side – they were the enemy. They wanted to kill us, enslave us, destroy our hope. It was simple. And if we died, we died for a cause. For freedom.

This … this is different. These children aren't the enemy. They never did anything to me. They don't deserve to die. And the twenty-three tributes who are going to die … What are they dying for? For the Capitol's entertainment? For their revenge against us? It isn't fair. They shouldn't be able to do this.

But they can. They are. And I'm caught in the middle. I don't want to kill them, but I don't want to die. I want to denounce this entire thing, proclaim myself a rebel in front of the Capitol – but I know that would destroy any chance I have of making it out of that arena alive. I know I can show them the extent of my skills tomorrow and probably earn myself a perfect – or, at least, near-perfect score – but I can't. I don't dare. Because then the other tributes would start to wonder how a girl from District Ten did so well. Maybe most of them would dismiss it, but if even one of them figured it out…

I can't take that risk. So I'll have to keep pretending. Keep hiding. Until the Games, at least. I can keep my secret until then.

"What are you going to do during the interviews?" Colt asks anxiously. At least, I'm pretty sure he sounds at least a _little_ more anxious than normal.

And maybe he has a right to be. He just figured out that the only partner he has was a rebel soldier. No doubt he's putting the pieces together, figuring out that if I blow my cover now, he'll get caught in the crossfire. We've been seen together too often for him to distance himself now – even if he wanted to.

But, at the same time, he _has_ to realize the benefits. The advantage of having an experienced soldier on your side in a situation like this – surely it's worth the risk. So I simply shrug. "Lie," I admit. "Won't everyone?"

Everyone who has something to hide. Something to lose. I have no doubt he's going to lie, too. About the years he clearly spent hiding in the woods. He hasn't even tried to hide his knowledge of plants, animals, fire-building, shelter-making. He knows more than his fair share of survival skills, but he's completely lost when it comes to fighting.

So we're both going to lie. We're both going to hide. Because that's what's going to keep us alive. What's going to keep the other tributes from targeting us. But only until the Games. Once we're in the arena, we'll be able to use every bit of what the last few years have taught us. I just hope it'll be enough.

* * *

 **And that concludes our training chapters. Hope you've been enjoying them as much as we have. Next we'll have our private sessions, training scores, and interviews. Each tribute will get one POV there, and one either after the interviews, the morning of the Games, or during the launch. We're almost there!**


	16. The Wrong Place

**The Wrong Place**

" _If you want justice, you've come to the wrong place."_

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

It's early in the morning when Titus wakes us for a quick breakfast before heading downstairs. But instead of bringing us to the training room, the elevator goes down one more level, opening into a large, open room lined with chairs. Twenty-four chairs, to be precise – each of them labeled. 1F, 1M, 2F, 2M, and so on. Vance and I glance at each other before taking our places in the chairs labeled 2F and 2M – District Two female and District Two male.

One by one, the other tributes arrive and take their seats. I glance around the room. A table of snacks and punch sits behind the rows of chairs. Once the rest of the tributes have arrived – some taking their seats, some gathered around the snack table – a voice echoes through the room. "Clarisse Richardson!" A door opens, then closes as soon as Clarisse steps through.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opens again, and Clarisse emerges, sweaty and breathing hard. "Maverick Sterling!" the voice calls, and Clarisse claps her younger district partner on the back before he, too, disappears behind the door. Clarisse glances around the room, perhaps unsure what she should do next, before leaving – probably headed back to her room.

Fifteen minutes again. This time, I'm watching the clock. Because if they're going in order, I'm next.

I'm ready, of course. At least, as ready as I can be. As ready as any of us can be. But, still, I'm glad that I'll be one of the first. That I can get this over with and be read for what's coming next.

After fifteen minutes exactly, the door opens again. "Gardenia Carys!" the voice calls, and I head for the door, passing Maverick on the way. He smiles at me before darting off to the side, letting me pass. The door closes behind me.

The room looks pretty much like the training center. Weapons line one side of the room, while various fire-making, shelter-building, and knot-tying supplies lie on the other. I head straight for the weapons, grateful to find a trainer ready and waiting to spar with me. I was worried that I would be stuck tearing apart dummies for fifteen minutes. Thankfully, the Gamemakers must have realized how boring that would be.

I quickly choose a weapon – a broadsword I've become rather familiar with during training. Maybe it's not the most practical weapon, but it's definitely one of the most fun to watch. And that's what they're looking for, after all – fights that will be fun to watch. So that's what I'll give them.

The trainer nods, chooses a similar weapon, and waits. Immediately, I charge. He blocks the blow, then swings. Quickly, we fall into a pattern – a pattern he seems content to keep up as long as I'll let him. Swing, block, swing, block. For a few minutes, we trade blows, dancing back and forth, leading each other across the room.

But I'm not dancing. I'm waiting. Waiting for the right time to make my move. I wait until I've maneuvered the trainer over to the Gamemakers' side of the room. Then, instead of blocking his next blow, I dodge sharply to the right, ducking beneath his blow and swiping at his legs. He sidesteps quickly, bringing his sword down hard. I barely manage to dodge his blow, but as I roll out of the way, I pass right by a table with a large supply of daggers. Without thinking, I reach for one with my left hand, still holding my sword with my right.

The trainer smiles as I back away for a moment, getting my bearings, catching my breath. Then he charges, swiping at my side as I dodge, then take a swing of my own, catching his blade between my sword and my dagger. I twist both to one side as hard as I can, and the sword flies out of the trainer's grasp.

Immediately, the Gamemakers applaud. Despite my efforts to keep my expression neutral, I can feel a smile start to creep across my face. I glance at the clock. It hasn't quite been fifteen minutes, but there's nothing else I could do that would top that. Might as well leave on a positive note. So I bow deeply, replace the weapons on the table, and head for the door.

It opens easily, and I can hear a few whispers as I leave. "You've still got two minutes," Vance whispers as I pass him.

But that doesn't seem to matter. "Vance Feldspar!" the voice calls, and I shrug. "Good luck."

 _Good luck._ I don't mean it, of course – no more than I meant anything when I shook his hand at the reaping. Right now, we can afford to be polite. To be good sports. But once we're in the Games, all of that will be gone, and he'll be on his own. That's not my problem, though. My only concern now is getting ready for the interviews tonight. And if they go as well as my session just did, I don't have much to worry about.

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

"Carina Ellison!" I glance up as Vance and Carina exchange a smile and a nod as they pass. The door closes behind Carina, and I immediately tense. Only fifteen minutes. Then it's my turn.

I clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking. Why am I so nervous? There's no reason to be. Not really. This isn't the Games. Not yet. And I've already figured out what I'm going to do. There's no reason to be worried.

Nonetheless, I find myself glancing at the clock over and over again as the minutes tick away, wondering what Carina's doing in there. Wondering what the rest of them did. I don't want to bore them by doing the same thing as everyone else, after all. That won't get me a very good score.

Maybe it doesn't matter. It's not as if I'm going to get an amazing score, anyway. I've all but accepted that already. So I'm not demonstrating swordplay or knife-throwing or whatever else might earn me top marks. I haven't been practicing that – not much, at least – so there's no point in making a fool of myself.

The door opens again. "Lincoln Tantalum!" Slowly, I force myself to my feet and head towards the door. _Okay. You can do this._

They're all watching me, which is already enough to make me nervous. In the training center, it felt as if no one was ever watching me. As if they were all paying attention to the tributes throwing spears and shooting arrows and smashing dummies to bits. The tributes who were doing something interesting.

But now all their eyes are on me. There's a trainer standing by, waiting to spar, but, instead, I head for the shelter-building station. Trying to remember everything Maverick showed me. Trying to duplicate it as quickly as I can.

Time is the only thing I'm really worried about, after all. So I work as quickly as I can. Tying knots here, weaving pieces together there. Eventually, I fall into a rhythm. It's surprisingly easy to forget that the Gamemakers are there. For a little while, it's just me and the shelter I'm building. No pressure. No threats.

It's an illusion, of course, but it's a welcome one. Once I'm finished building my little structure, I set to work camouflaging it. I cover it in as many twigs and leaves as I can find at the plants station. With about a minute left, I climb inside to demonstrate how sturdy it is. How well it can hide me.

The Gamemakers say nothing as I climb out again. One of them is smiling a little, but most of them seem … well, unimpressed. And maybe that makes sense. This is a fight to the death, not a game of hide and seek. But if it was…

If it was, I would have more of a chance. I smile as pleasantly as I can, give the Gamemakers a little wave, and head for the door. Past the girl from Four as they call her inside. Out the door and into the hall. Through the elevator door and all the way up to my room. Past Carina, who is already talking through interview strategies with Leopold.

It's not until I'm in my room, safely alone on my bed, that the tears start to come. I did my best. I know that. And that's the problem. My best was … well, they obviously didn't think it was good enough. Impressive enough. None of them think I have a chance.

Are they right? Have I been kidding myself? Maybe. Or maybe I've known all along. Maybe I knew days ago, when I said goodbye to my parents, that it was for good. That it was forever. That I would never – _will_ never – see them again.

As soon as I bury my face in my pillow, however, there's a knock on the door. "Go away!" My voice comes out louder, harsher, than I intended. But who would be knocking? Leopold and Carina haven't paid me one bit of attention since the reaping. Why would they care now?

But as the door slowly creaks open, I can see that it isn't either of them at the door. It's Maverick. "Sorry," he whispers as he takes a hesitant step inside. "Just thought … want might to – I don't – sorry." He climbs on the bed beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder. "Together?"

I blink the tears from my eyes. Is he really saying what I think he's saying? After he just walked in on me crying? "Are you … are you saying you want to work together – in the arena?" He nods. "Why?"

He takes one of my hands, gripping it tightly in both of his. "Need each other."

I swallow my tears back as hard as I can. Maybe we do. Maybe we need each other. Maybe we need to stick together. If I can't hold myself together for my own sake, maybe I can hold it together for him. And together, maybe – just maybe – we have a chance.

* * *

 **Memphis Ash, 18  
** **District Four**

Silver, Simon, and I keep our distance from the other tributes as we wait. Not because we don't want to associate with them – although some of them might have gotten that impression by now – but because the room, although large, clearly wasn't designed to give every tribute the ten feet of space I need to make sure that the collar Tyrone gave me doesn't go off. I've managed to avoid getting "incapacitated" as he said for three days now, and I have no intention of making a mistake now. Not when my training is about to pay off.

Not that I care about the numbers. Not really. They could, after all, choose to give me a low score simply because I'm a rebel. Because of what I did to their escort. Because of my father. But even if they do, they'll know. They'll know I'm a threat. And once we're in the arena, they'll have no way to stop me.

Once we're in the arena. I'm almost itching for it, I realize, standing here, waiting as the minutes slowly tick by. Once we're in the arena, I won't have to worry about Tyrone, or the President, or any of them. It'll just be me and the other tributes. And I'm ready.

Most of them aren't – that much is clear as we wait. They're not ready. They're nervous. Anxious. Worried. Most of them have never been in a situation like this before. Never really had a reason to fear for their lives. They just survived a war, yes, but most of them didn't fight. They're just kids. They have no idea what's coming.

The door opens, and I wait until Bliss has passed to make my way to the door. She doesn't even glance at me. But that doesn't matter. She escaped once. I wasn't quick enough to finish her off before the Peacekeepers intervened. Once we're in the arena…

But first I have to take care of this business. "Memphis Ash!" a voice calls, and I enter the room. Weapons line the walls. I quickly choose the first one I see – a machete lying halfway between the door and where the Gamemakers are seated. The trainer nods, ready to begin. Maybe itching for a good fight as much as I am. Most likely, none of the previous tributes have really proved to be a challenge for him. The girl from Two, maybe, but the others…

But now isn't the time to worry about the others. I can deal with them later. Instead, I charge, swinging my machete full force as the trainer raises his own sword to defend himself, smiling. Grinning a little too happily for my tastes.

Suddenly, there's a tingling sensation in my neck. I realize too late why he's so confident. He's not wearing an armband. Before I can stop myself, my momentum propels me forward – within ten feet of him. There's a sharp, sizzling noise as pain courses through my body. My hands reach instinctively for my collar, trying to rip it off as the pain brings me to my knees.

But the pain doesn't stop. I can feel myself growing dizzy. Lightheaded. _It's not fair_. My vision starts to blur. I never even had a chance. I didn't…

And maybe that's the point. I don't have a chance. I never had a chance. That's what they want: to prove that I can't hurt them. That I can't beat them. Not here. Not in their Games.

For a moment, I simply lie here, catching my breath, waiting. Waiting for what, I'm not sure. For my vision to return. For the pain to subside. By the time it does, however, my time is almost up. I glance over at the trainer, who's still standing there, smiling. I shake my head, throw down my machete, and make my way to the door.

They've won this round. They can give me a low score. Make the other tributes think I don't stand a chance. But once we're in the Games, everything will be different. I push the door open and storm past the other tributes, making sure to keep my distance. I can feel their eyes watching me. But that's all right. They'll pay. They'll all pay. If I have to kill each and every one of them, I will. I'll show them. I'll win their stupid Games, and then I'll come for them. I'll come for them all.

By the time I make it back to my room, I'm out of breath again. But that doesn't matter. The scores don't matter. What the other tributes think doesn't matter. The interviews, the training, the lights, the spectacle – none of it matters. All that matters is the Games. Me and the other tributes – that's the only thing that's going to count, in the end. And I'm going to win.

* * *

 **Crescent Nerine, 17  
** **District Five**

Memphis looks like hell by the time he emerges. He's pale, he's sweating, and he looks ready to collapse as he stumbles past the rest of us and out of the room. For a moment, I'm caught rather off-guard. These sessions are supposed to be an opportunity to demonstrate our skills. What did they do to him?

 _That's not your problem._ I quickly regain my composure, give Icho a nod, and head for the door as they call my name. There's a trainer standing at the other end of the room, but instead of choosing one of the weapons already available, I choose one of the small carving knives and a large branch of wood from the fire-starting area. As quickly as I can, trying my best to remember the trainer's example from yesterday, I carve the branch into a spear, then attach a sharpened rock with a piece of twine.

I glance at the clock. I still have a few minutes left. I choose one of the dummies, step back a few paces, and give my makeshift spear a throw. It strikes the dummy but then clatters to the floor. Frustrated, I retrieve it and try again. And again. The third time, the spear lodges itself in the dummy's chest. Satisfied, I pick it up again and quickly take a swipe at the trainer. He dodges, smiling, and picks up one of the staffs nearby. We trade blows back and forth for a moment before a bell rings, signaling the end of my time.

Sweating and breathing hard, but definitely satisfied, I head for the door. "Icho Thesik!" the voice calls as the door opens, and Icho and I clap each other on the back as we pass each other. The door closes behind him, and I start to leave.

But something stops me. All of the other tributes have left the waiting room once their sessions were over, but there's no rule saying we have to. At least, I don't think there is. So I might as well wait for Icho. I head over to the snack table, where the pair from Ten have already decided they might as well wait until their turn. I shake my head as I grab a few crackers. At least Icho and I were in the first half of tributes. Districts Ten, Eleven, Twelve – they'll have to wait another few hours before their turn. By the time the Gamemakers get around to them…

 _Not your problem._ They seemed satisfied enough with my performance, which is the only thing I'm worried about right now. Or, at least, it _should_ be the only thing I'm worried about. If I'm being honest, I'm much more anxious about the interviews tonight than I was about this. Make a spear, throw a spear, fight with a spear – that I can handle.

When it comes to an interview, on the other hand, I frankly have no idea what to expect. What are they going to ask about? Me? My family? District Five? The war? What if I don't want to talk about my family? We didn't do anything particularly interesting during the war. What am I supposed to talk about?

 _So lie_. That's what Icho says he's going to do, and Isaac didn't seem to think that would be a problem. But I've never been a very good liar. What you see is what you get – that's always worked for me before.

And maybe I shouldn't be so concerned. After all, what's the point of these interviews, anyway? Who am I trying to impress? They're just one more hoop to jump through before we can get down to business. Before we have to face the fact that we're going to be killing each other. Maybe they're even supposed to be … I don't know … fun. I mean, if we're going to be interviewed in front of all of Panem right before going to what is probably our deaths … well, we might as well have a little fun with it, right?

The door swings open, and Icho emerges. "Sylvana Paean!" the voice calls, and the girl makes her way inside. I nod at Icho, who seems surprised to see I'm still here. But he's smiling, clearly satisfied with how his session went.

"Let's go." I motion towards the door, and he nods. We leave the room together, certainly leaving the others with no doubt that we've decided to work together.

And why should we keep it a secret? None of them have – or, at least, none of them seem to be making an effort to do so. It'll be clear enough, once we're in the arena, who's decided to work with who. So what's the point in trying to hide it now? Where's the point in trying to hide anything?

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

Maybe there's no point in trying to hide how nervous I am. Not anymore, anyways. Carina and Vance are already long gone. They had their turns and left almost immediately. Which makes sense, of course. It's one thing to wait around another fifteen minutes for your district partner, like the girl from Five did, like the girl from Seven is doing now. It's quite another to wait around hours after you've had your own turn.

And it's not as if there would be any point in staying. Not as if they could help me. In fact, if anything, they might end up making me even more nervous.

I drum my fingers impatiently on the snack table as the boy from Seven emerges from the room and Neblina's name is called. Only one more to go. One more. And then it's my turn.

Maybe I shouldn't be nervous. Whether the other tributes have noticed or not, I'm not sure, but the Gamemakers have been watching us for the past three days. They already know exactly what we're capable of. Which makes me wonder why they decided to hold these sessions, anyway. What are they going to see in fifteen minutes that they didn't see during three days of watching us train?

Maybe … well, maybe they want to see how well we work alone. They must have noticed that most of us have teamed up with another tribute or two. Most of us have been training with partners, fighting alongside partners. But if we're on our own…

And maybe that's what has me worried. Yesterday I had Vance and Carina to back me up if things went wrong. But I won't have them now. And I won't have them in the Games – not forever. Eventually, it'll just be me. Eventually, I'll have to be able to fend for myself.

But can I? The thought gnaws at me as the door opens and Neblina emerges, smiling a little. "Kennedy Ford!" I head into the room and choose my weapon – a medium-sized dagger I've become reasonably comfortable with. The trainer nods, chooses a similar weapon, and nods. He's ready.

But I'm not. Not quite. I circle around, pretending to be nervous. Well, more nervous than I actually am. Then I charge. But, as I do, I duck, dropping my dagger to the ground and scooping up a nearby spear, instead. The trainer, surprised, barely dodges my first blow. And the next.

The spear is heavy, though. After a few more passes, I drop it, leaving myself open to attack as I reach for a different weapon. The trainer taps me gently on the side with his dagger. I clench my teeth as I scoop up a club, swinging it as hard as I can. The trainer quickly ducks, reaching down and picking up my discarded spear. The blunt end of the spear taps my chest as he drops the dagger in favor of his new weapon. I duck beneath his next blow, swiping at his legs, but he simply steps aside.

After several more minutes, I finally manage to land a blow on his shoulder, but not before he's tapped me several times. Always gently, but it's humiliating nonetheless. If he were really fighting – really trying to kill me – I would be dead already. A few dozen times over.

Finally, a bell rings, announcing the end of my session. I'm almost grateful for it, but I clench my fists tightly and manage a polite nod to the trainer. He nods back, and, for a second, it almost looks like he's winking.

No. No, that's silly. Probably just sweat dripping in his eyes. He has no more reason to wish me luck, after all, than any of the others. How many tributes has he fought today? How many will he still have to fight?

All the ones who decided to demonstrate weapons skills, I suppose. I considered demonstrating a few of the survival skills I've learned, instead. I've gotten rather good at fire-building. But the truth is, that isn't really what they want to see. They don't want to see tributes building fires and tying knots and sorting plants. They want to see if we can fight. If we can kill.

I can't help but wonder, though, if I can. Not whether I'll be able to handle it mentally. None of us are really ready for that, I suppose, but when the time comes … we'll fight. We'll kill. We'll have to. Because all of us want to survive. That's not what I'm worried about. Not anymore. But after what just happened with the trainer…

I shake my head as I make my way past the remaining tributes. He's a trainer. He knows what he's doing. The other tributes won't. Not really. Not most of them. Not any more than I do. I have as good a chance as any of them. I want it just as much. I'm just as willing to fight. Just as ready to kill. Aren't I?

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

If I'm being honest, I'm not ready to kill. I'm not even ready to really _think_ about killing the other tributes. But this … this, I can do. This trainer – I can fight him.

I quickly choose a bladed staff – almost like one of the scythes I'm used to using back home. The trainer picks one without a blade. Maybe he thinks he's taking it easy on me. Maybe he doesn't want to accidentally hurt me. Either way, I can't help smiling a little as I charge. He's underestimated me.

They all have. The fact that I've chosen a thirteen-year-old as a partner – it's blinded them to the fact that I'm probably one of the strongest tributes in the arena – aside from the ones who actually _fought_ in the war, of course. I'm fit from years of working in the fields, and I know my way around items that, while generally used for harvesting grain, can easily be transformed into weapons.

Even the trainer looks a little surprised as I charge, almost managing to land a blow on his side before he blocks it and quickly leaps out of the way. I swing again, but this time, he's ready for the blow. He blocks it, then swings his own weapon. But I catch the blow with the sharp end of the blade, splitting his staff in two.

The trainer actually giggles a little as he reaches for a second weapon – a long, thick sword. I nod and attack again, but, in a way, I've already won. If we were in the arena – if we were fighting for real and there didn't happen to be another weapon just lying there – he would be dead.

As long as I had the guts to kill him, that is. I swallow hard as I block one blow and then another. Could I really do it? Maybe, if it was someone like him. An adult who stood a fair chance in a fight. Someone from the Capitol. The enemy. But a kid? Someone like me? Someone like Peter?

Could I really do it?

I swing as hard as I can. Blow after blow. Swipe after swipe. Swing. Block. Step aside. It becomes a pattern, almost. A rhythm. After a while, it doesn't even seem like we're fighting. Like we're trying to kill each other.

Because we're not, of course. Neither of us really wants to kill the other. The trainer probably has orders not to hurt me, and I … I don't know. Would I kill him, if I thought I could? Just because he's from the Capitol? Because he's playing a part in these Games?

That's what I told myself during the rebellion – that, if I ever got the chance to fight, I would kill any Capitolite I came across without hesitation. Without a second thought. And why not? They seemed like animals. Monsters. They were the ones responsible for the war, the one who had pushed the districts to the breaking point. The were the ones who forced us to live in poverty and despair, who made war seem like a good option. Like the only option. It was their fault – and theirs alone.

But after spending three days here, sparring with trainers like this man, learning from the ones at the other stations – after all that, they don't seem so … well, so inhuman. I'd always imagined Capitolites as … almost a different species, I suppose. Not really human. And certainly not anything like me.

But Phoenix – she's been helpful. The stylists did their best to make Peter and me look presentable during the chariot rides. The trainers have only tried to help us learn skills that will keep us alive. And the man sparring with me now – he's smiling. He's enjoying this, maybe even more than I am.

Because, as much as I might not want to admit it, I _am_ enjoying this. This – this is fun. By the time the bell rings, I've almost forgotten the Gamemakers are even watching. I've lost myself in the moment. In the rhythm, the challenge, the excitement of it all.

Then, above the ringing of the bell, I hear a sound I didn't expect. Applause. A few of the Gamemakers are clapping. Cheering me for my performance. I stare for a moment, shocked, before turning and leaving the room as quickly as I can.

They weren't cheering for me. They were cheering for what they _thought_ they saw. Someone who's ready to fight, to kill, for their pleasure. Their approval. They saw not just a killer, but a murderer, a hunter, killing for sport. For fun. Enjoying every moment of the fight, the chase, the challenge.

But that's not me. That will never be me. It can't be. I won't let myself. I won't let myself _be_ that. I won't let myself _become_ that. Not for their entertainment. Not even for my own survival. They can't – they won't – force me to become their monster.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

I don't know how she can be so calm. Aubrey smiles a little as the doors close behind the little boy from Nine – Peter. Peter Eldamar. They just called his name. Which means her name is next. And then mine.

But she doesn't seem worried. And maybe she shouldn't be. After all, she knows what she's doing. Hell, she's probably even going to hold back a little, like she suggested we do. She doesn't have to worry about impressing anyone. If anything, she's trying _not_ to impress people.

I shake my head, leaning back against the table as I grab another sandwich. We've been here for hours. Tribute after tribute, going in there, trying to make an impression. How many of us are the Gamemakers really going to remember? I understand that they want to see each of us separately, but there has to be some other way to do it. There has to be a better way than this.

It's not fair, after all, to those of us from the later districts. By the time they get to us, they'll have seen everything already. Swords. Spears. Daggers. Knives. Clubs. It'll all be old.

And that's part of the reason I decided to demonstrate survival skills, instead. I figure not many tributes will go that route, so it'll still be interesting. Still be something different. Well, that and the fact that I'm more familiar with making traps and fires and tying knots than I am with weapons. I might as well show them what I actually _know_ , rather than trying to bluff my way through what I've learned in the last few days.

Because the truth is, none of us have learned enough in the past few days to really impress anyone. The tributes who are going to score high are the ones who came in with some skills already mastered. The ones who already know how to fight – they'll score the highest. There's no way around it, so I might as well accept it.

"Aubrey Ryans!" Aubrey claps me on the back before heading in to take her turn. I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes. She has fifteen minutes to convince them that she doesn't really know what she's doing. Fifteen minutes to show them a lie. A lie I have to hope is convincing enough.

The minutes pass slowly. So slowly. But, finally, the door opens, and Aubrey steps out. "Colton Hawkins!" the voice calls, and I nod as I pass her. My turn.

I don't waste any time with the weapons that have clearly been used a lot today, the trainer who's standing off to the side, waiting to see if I want to fight. I don't. Instead, I head straight for the fire-building materials. I get a fire going quickly, then move on to the plants. I choose some edible ones, throw them into a pile, and start building a shelter. By the time the bell rings, I have a fire burning, a meal prepared, and a passable shelter built. I quickly douse the fire before heading for the door.

Aubrey is waiting for me when I emerge. "You smell like smoke."

I probably do. I suppose it's no secret what I was demonstrating. Not that I meant to keep it a secret. Anyone who's been watching us knows Aubrey and I spent most of our time at the survival stations. The girl from Eleven smiles a little as she passes me on her way inside. What's she going to show them? I haven't seen her at many of the weapons stations, either.

I shake the thought from my head as Aubrey and I make our way out of the room. It doesn't matter what she's planning to do. What anyone else did. In the end, maybe it doesn't even matter what we did. These scores aren't going to mean anything, after all, once we're in the Games. Maybe it's best not to worry about them at all.

But, whether it's best or not, I have to admit I _am_ a bit worried. Should I have shown them more? Should I have at least tried to fight the trainer? Will they think I'm not ready to fight? Not willing to fight?

That's what they want to see, after all. They want a fight. And, one way or another, they'll get a fight. Should I have done more to show them that I'm ready for that?

 _Stop it._ It's too late to worry about that now. Too late to change what I did in that room, even if I wanted to. Too late to go back and spend more time at the weapons station. Too late to beg for more time to learn anything. I'll have to deal with what I have. What I know.

"Not bad," Aubrey agrees on the way back to our room as I explain what I showed the Gamemakers. "Not everyone would be able to fit that into fifteen minutes. That's impressive."

Maybe. Maybe it is. Or maybe she's just being kind. Either way, for a moment, it feels good. For a moment, it feels like I made the right choice. And maybe that's all that matters.

* * *

 **Felicity DeBrier, 14  
** **District Eleven**

I just hope I made the right choice when I decided what to show them. As I head into the room, I glance up at the Gamemakers. They're watching, but a couple of them are slouching in their chairs, clearly fed up with having to watch tribute after tribute demonstrate the same silly skills.

And it's hard to blame them. I know _I_ wouldn't want to sit here for six hours and watch twenty-four different tributes fight with the exact same weapons, show the same survival skills. From the smell of the room, the boy before me built a fire. How many fires have they seen today? How many swordfights? How could I hope to make an impression with either of those things?

Instead, I choose a knife, sit down with a pile of wood, and start carving. Minute after minute ticks by as I shape one piece of wood after another into the form I want. Every now and then, I steal a glance up at the Gamemakers. Some of them are watching intently, curious about what I might be making. Some aren't. It doesn't matter.

With a minute left on the clock, I reveal my work – a pile of wooden stakes, their points sharpened just enough to be considered a weapon. I hurry over to the nearest dummy and start stabbing, leaving the dummy looking like a pincushion as the bell finally rings.

I head for the door without glancing back at the Gamemakers. Whether they think it's silly or whether they're impressed at the number of weapons you can make in a short time when you put your mind to it … well, I guess I'll find out.

"Aldous Clement!" My district partner smiles a little as he limps past me and into the room. As the door shuts behind him, I hesitate. A few of the other tributes have waited for their district partner to finish their session and then left together – but only the ones who have been working together. Aldous and I aren't, but…

Why does it matter? I've been waiting here for hours. Fifteen more minutes certainly isn't going to hurt. I settle back into a seat beside the only two tributes who are left – the pair from Twelve. The girl smiles a little, but the boy ignores us. I suppose he has every reason to be grumpy. He's going to be the last tribute to get a turn. By the time the Gamemakers get to him, they'll just want to be done.

So the three of us simply sit here in awkward silence. Waiting. Waiting for fifteen minutes to end. Finally, they do, and the door opens. Aldous limps out, smiling a little as he passes the girl. "Tullia Litvina!" the voice calls as she darts inside without even glancing at him.

Aldous nods at me. "Thanks for waiting."

"Not a problem." Once we're in the hallway, I let him lean on me a little as we make our way to the elevator. "So what did you show them?"

Aldous smiles. "First aid, mostly. Just the basics I had time for. Took a dummy, gave it a few cuts, bandaged them, sewed them up – nothing too elaborate. I would have done a more complicated surgery, but more complicated surgeries take time, and … well, let's be honest. That's not what they want to see, anyway."

He's right about that, at least. The Gamemakers want to see us tear each other apart, not put people back together again. Aldous shrugs. "But it's what I know how to do. Maybe all I know how to do, I suppose."

And the saddest thing is, it's true. I don't know Aldous all that well, but it's clear to anyone that he spent so much time as a doctor, he can't really fathom the idea of being anything else. Even when he's not physically healing people, he's doing his best to help someone. To comfort someone. And that's a wonderful thing. It's something we desperately need more of. But it's also something that will probably get him killed.

No, not even _probably._ His kindness _will_ get him killed. It's just a matter of how, and when, and who will be the one to do it. I can feel tears in my eyes as the pair of us make our way back to our room. It's not fair. In a better world – a world without the Games – he would be exactly the sort of person I would want to surround myself with. Anywhere else, I would trust him with my life.

But here, in the Games, I'll have to get as far away from him as possible. Because he's going to get himself killed. And I'm not going to let him get me killed, too.

"So what did _you_ show them?" Aldous asks as we take a seat on one of the couches. His smile widens even more as I explain what I did. "Clever. Wish I'd thought of that."

He doesn't, of course. He wouldn't want to do anything other than what he did. To be anything other than what he is. And part of me respects him for that. Part of me pities him. Part of me wishes I had the strength to do the same – to be certain of who I was and stay true to that, no matter what. But I don't. I can't. Not if I want to live.

* * *

 **And that's it for our private sessions. Next up, the tributes will learn their scores! So ... who do you think will score well? Who might do ... well, not so well? Let us know what you think.**

 **Also, the results of the favorite tribute poll that's been up on my profile have been posted on the blog. Congrats to Colt, who seems to be an early favorite.**

 **Update regarding the new poll: Just because 12 is listed as the maximum number of tributes you can choose doesn't necessarily mean that's the number of tributes who will die in the bloodbath - just the upper limit of what we thought might be considered reasonable.**


	17. Only One War

**Only One War**

" _There's only one war. Life against death. Come. Let me show you what you're fighting for."_

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

"Sit down! Sit down! They're ready to start!" I can't help smiling a little as Gloria calls us to the couches. She seems even more nervous about the announcement than we are. In fact, I'm not as nervous as I expected to be. I did my best, fought as hard as I could. If that's not enough to impress them … well, that's their problem, not mine.

At least, that's what I keep trying to tell myself. That it doesn't matter what they think. What sort of score I get. But the truth is, none of us really know how much it's going to matter. None of us really have any idea what these scores will be used for. How they might affect the audience's perception of us. What sort of effect that might have on what happens in the arena.

In an ideal world, maybe it wouldn't matter. This is practice. The Games are the Games. They're two completely different things. Sparring in a room with a trainer who isn't really trying to kill you is different than fighting when your life is actually on the line.

At least, I would imagine it is. I assume it is. I've never really been in a life-or-death situation before. And, as much as I hate admitting it, there's a part of me that's … excited? No, not quite excited, but certainly intrigued. I told Elijah that I'm not here because I'm some sort of sadistic monster who enjoys killing. And that's true. But there's something about the challenge, the struggle to survive, that's oddly appealing.

And I suppose, in a way, that's what they're counting on. They're hoping the audience will have the same sense of excitement, of anticipation. It's monstrous. Barbaric. And yet so … human. Maybe it's just our nature to enjoy competition – even if the competition is something horrible like this.

"Come _on_. You're going to miss it." The whole thing certainly seems to have had its desired effect on Gloria, who's sitting on the couch, glued to the screen. Finally, I take a seat beside her, and Maverick settles onto the floor in front of us. Almost immediately, Noelle Hale, the president's daughter and the Host of the Hunger Games, appears on the screen.

"Good afternoon and welcome to the very first annual Hunger Games. For three days, our tributes have been training hard, learning both fighting and survival skills. This morning, in a private session with the Gamemakers, each tribute had a chance to demonstrate his or her skills. Tributes were given a score between one and twelve – scores that will now be revealed."

I watch silently, my whole body tense, as a picture of my face appears on the screen. "From District One – Clarisse Richardson, with a score of seven." A number seven flashes across the screen. I glance over at Gloria. Is that good? Is a seven good? They said we'd be scored from one to twelve, and seven – well, that's right in the middle. Without some idea of how the other tributes scored, I have no way of knowing whether that's good or not.

"Maverick Sterling, with a score of four." _Ouch_. I glance sympathetically over at Maverick, but he doesn't seem bothered. And maybe that makes sense. He's only thirteen, after all, and the Gamemakers probably have to take that into account. But, still, I expected him to score at least a little higher.

But, now that I think about it … why? What would make me think he would get a higher score? The fact that he volunteered? Maybe it's like Elijah and I said – now that we're here, it doesn't matter which of us chose to be here and which of us were simply unlucky enough to be picked. The fact that he volunteered isn't going to help him once we're in the arena.

And if you take that away, what's left? A skinny little kid who can barely put three words together without stammering and who doesn't look like he could hold any weapon heavier than a dagger. Once we're in the arena, what chance does he really have? It sounds terrible, but, now that I think about it, a four was probably generous.

So what does that say about my seven? I only scored three points better than my younger, weaker district partner. I drum my fingers on the arm of the couch as Noelle's face returns to introduce District Two.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

"Gardenia Carys, with a score of ten." A ten flashes over the picture of my district partner's face, and I can't help letting out a whistle. Even Titus nods a little, clearly impressed. Gardenia simply glares over at me.

"What?" I shrug. "It's impressive."

Gardenia shakes her head and turns back to the screen. What was she expecting? A twelve? She has the highest score so far. That has to count for something, doesn't it?

And maybe there's no reason for me to be happy for her. She's competition, after all – and deadly competition, judging by her score. Still … she's from District Two. We have that much in common, at least. And having a district partner score so well … it feels good, even if there's no real reason why it should.

"Vance Feldspar, with a score of seven."

Seven. Okay, that's not bad. I mean, Clarisse got the same score, and she _wanted_ to be here. And a seven – that's about halfway between one and twelve. About average. Maybe you don't generally think about average as a good thing, but maybe it's exactly what I should have expected.

And maybe … maybe it'll even be useful. Because while a score like Gardenia's might let the audience know that she's a strong contender, it also lets the other _tributes_ know the same thing – at least, those of them who hadn't already figured it out. It might make her a target. Someone the other tributes might want to try to take out first, because she poses more of a threat.

Or maybe … maybe it doesn't make much of a difference at all. Because anyone who's been paying attention – anyone who's seen her practicing at the weapons stations – knows she's a threat. We already knew she was dangerous – maybe one of the most dangerous tributes in the arena. A ten might confirm that, of course, but it's not as if we would have ignored her if they decided to give her a two.

My seven, on the other hand … that doesn't seem so threatening. I mean, it's still a good score. At least, I think it is. I don't exactly have much to compare it to at the moment…

But Noelle quickly remedies that for me. "From District Three – Carina Ellison, with a score of six."

Six. I can't help staring at the screen, a little surprised by my ally's score. I scored higher than her? That makes me feel a little better. I mean, it's only a point more, but it's strangely reassuring. I was a bit worried, I guess, that I might end up with the lowest score in our group, end up looking like I might not be able to pull my own weight. But if I scored higher than her…

"Lincoln Tantalum, with a score of two." I can't help a sympathetic wince as the little boy's face appears on the screen, along with a two flashing over it. That's the lowest score so far – even lower than the boy from One. Just because he's twelve doesn't mean he doesn't have a chance. At least, it shouldn't. It's not fair.

 _Of course it's not fair._ But if _I_ want to win, then I can't be worried about whether the Gamemakers are being fair to anyone else – whether they're my partners or a little boy from Three. I can't afford to start worrying about them. If the Gamemakers want to write him off as a lost cause, that shouldn't bother me.

But it does. It bothers me more than I should probably admit. People like Gardenia, like Carina – it's a bit easier to see them as competition. But the boys from One and Three, the girl from Twelve, the boy from Nine – they're too young. Too young to be expected to fight alongside the rest of us. Too young to really have a chance.

I clench my fists, leaning back on the couch. No, it's not fair. Yes, they're young. Twelve. Thirteen. But I was thirteen when my mother was killed. I wasn't any older than them when she was murdered in front of me. Life wasn't fair then, so why should I expect anything different now? Why should _they_ expect anything different?

* * *

 **Bliss Loverly, 16  
** **District Four**

I'm not really sure what to expect as the boy's face fades from the screen, along with the sorry little number two that accompanied it. Maybe it's because he's only twelve. But the boy from One got a four, at least, which seems a bit better. Gardenia, on the other hand – I can't imagine anyone doing better than her, and she got a ten. They said they were scoring from one to twelve, but if _she_ didn't get a twelve, then I can't imagine anyone who would.

 _I'm_ certainly not expecting a twelve. My session went pretty well, but I don't think it went _that_ well. Not well enough to compete with a soldier with actual training. And that's all right. That's what people would have assumed, anyway – that, of the two of us, she's the one who really knows what she's doing.

But that also means that they'll assume _she's_ the threat. That _she's_ the one they need to watch out for. And maybe that means that, given the choice between attacking her and attacking me, they'll see her as a greater danger … and a better target. Part of me feels guilty for hiding behind her like that, but … well, only one of us can survive. Which means that, eventually, she'll have to die. And I'd rather have someone else do it than end up fighting her myself.

I shake my head as I turn back to the screen. We're a long way from that, in any case. A long way, I would hope, from having to think about turning on each other. Fighting each other. Maybe if it came down to the two of us … but, even then, I can't imagine fighting her. Killing her.

"From District Four – Bliss Loverly, with a score of seven." Noelle's voice pulls me out of my thoughts as a seven flashes on the screen, along with my picture. Seven. Not bad at all. Just as good as the girl from One and the boy from Two. Better than half the tributes so far, and the same as two of them. In fact, the only person who's done better is Gardenia.

I glance over at the empty chair next to me as my picture fades. Memphis is still in his room. Says he doesn't care about his score, that it's rigged, anyway. Maybe it is. And maybe that's fair. He's a rebel, after all. It makes sense that the Capitol wouldn't want him to win. But giving him a low score because of that almost seems silly. Anyone who's been watching him train knows he's a threat. Giving him a low score isn't going to make us ignore him.

"Memphis Ash, with a score of one." I can't help a smile as his picture appears onscreen. It looks like he was right, after all. And maybe it doesn't mean anything, but it _does_ feel strangely satisfying. It means that loyalty counts for something – and disloyalty will be punished.

Then again, I can't help but wonder … Did the same thing affect my score? Did I get a higher score because I really deserved it, or because of my family's loyalty? I'd like to think that I did well enough to score a seven on my own, but how can I be sure?

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it doesn't matter whether they liked me because of my abilities or because of my loyalty. They're both a part of who I am. Why should I be more worried about one than the other?

"From District Five – Crescent Nerine, with a score of eight." My smile fades a little as the girl's face appears onscreen. She scored better than I did? I mean, I saw her and her district partner making some spears yesterday, but they didn't really seem all that threatening…

"Icho Thesik, with a score of eight." Now I'm glad Memphis isn't out here watching with me. He'd probably get a kick out of that. Two tributes from District Five, of all places, scoring better than me. Better than anyone so far except Gardenia.

But maybe … maybe I should be grateful for that. If it weren't for their high scores, I might never have noticed how well they were doing. May never have considered them a threat. Now I'll be watching them. Everyone will be watching them. And that's not such a good thing.

* * *

 **Horario Garcia, 15  
** **District Six**

No one will be watching us. I'm certain of that as Paean and I settle down on the couch with Maia. No one expects us to do well – the pair of us, or our allies. And maybe … well, maybe that's a good thing. The less remarkable our scores are, the less the other tributes will consider us a threat.

The first couple districts pass by with only a few surprises. Most tributes score somewhere around a six – either a little higher or a little lower. It's only once the screen reaches District Four that things become a little more surprising. The girl does well enough – a seven, in fact – but the boy scores only a one.

I'm not stupid, of course. Not stupid enough to believe that a score of one means that the boy isn't a threat. Clearly, he is. Clearly, the Gamemakers are playing some sort of game with us. Exactly what that game is, I'm not sure. Did they give him a low score simply because he's a rebel? Are they trying to tell us that, regardless of his physical strength, he has no chance of winning?

Maybe. But just because he has no chance of winning doesn't mean he has no chance of _killing_ anyone. Of killing me. So, really, his score doesn't matter much. We all know he's a threat. We're all going to treat him as a threat. Nothing has changed.

The next two numbers are also a bit of a surprise – this time for the opposite reason. Both tributes from District Five manage to score an eight. Higher than anyone except the girl from Two. I turn to Paean, who simply shrugs. Who cares what they got? They scored well – there's no denying that – but that could end up backfiring big time.

Because now everyone has noticed them – this pair from Five. A few minutes ago, no one really had any reason to consider them a threat. But now we do. We all do.

Not that I'm going to go after them because of it, of course, but other tributes might. The stronger groups, like the pair from Seven and the boy from Four, or the girls from Two and Four, might be looking for stronger opponents to attack first. And tributes like me, like Paean, like Felicity, will know better than to underestimate them. We'll avoid them.

But really … Isn't that what we were planning to do, anyway? Felicity and I have been planning to avoid as many other tributes as possible. So trying to stay away from the pair from Five … That doesn't really change anything, either.

Finally, the image on the screen changes. "From District Six – Sylvana Paean, with a score of four." Not bad. Not great, maybe, but not awful. It's not a one or a two, at least. And it's not likely to catch anyone's attention. Not likely to make her a target. And not really likely to surprise anyone, either. Most of the tributes have probably noticed her and Aldous over by the fire-starting station, smoking. How well could she have expected to score?

"Horario Garcia, with a score of four." Paean claps me on the back as a picture of my face appears, followed by a number four. I nod, satisfied. Not bad.

Maia can't help grinning a little. "Wonderful! You match! That's just perfect, you know – district partners who are equally matched. You two are going to go far – I can just feel it."

I bite back a rude comment about what she can do with her feelings. I don't care about _going far._ Going far isn't going to help me. Not unless I win. And the fact that Paean got the same score as me – Who cares? It's not going to change anything. Not going to convince me to work with her, if that's what Maia was hoping for. I've already found a partner. So has she. The fact that my partner and hers are district partners, as well – that doesn't really matter. Does it?

It shouldn't. Before the reaping, I didn't know Paean. And I'm pretty sure Felicity hadn't met Aldous before then. So why should it matter that we happen to be from the same district? If more than one of us could come home, of course, maybe I'd want to save someone from my district before a stranger, but that's not how it works. One person wins. One person survives.

And if it comes down to me or Paean, I'll choose me. If it comes down to me or Felicity, I'll choose me. Not because I _want_ them to die, but because I don't want to die, either. And I'm sure they'd choose themselves, too. Who wouldn't?

There was a lot of talk during the war about being willing to die for each other. For a cause. For freedom. And maybe some people buy into that. I never have. And maybe that's why the rebellion failed. Maybe not enough people were willing to give their lives for something that they wouldn't be around to reap the benefits of. No one wants to die for a lost cause. Of course, once you get down to it, no one really _wants_ to die for anything. And I'm not prepared to be the exception to that.

* * *

 **Simon Galley, 18  
** **District Seven**

During the war, I was ready to die. Willing to die. I keep reminding myself of that when the fear starts to creep back. I've faced death before. I've faced this sort of fear, and always managed to overcome it. Or at least control it. Why should this be any different?

But it _is_ different. During the war, we were fighting for a cause. In the long run, we were fighting for our freedom, our right to live in peace and make our own decisions. During each battle, we were fighting not only for our own lives, but the lives of our fellow soldiers. We were fighting to keep each other alive.

But if I'm going to win this, I _can't_ keep other people alive. Everyone else has to die, and that just sits wrong with my training as a soldier. We were trained to protect those around us, to take care of the people who were fighting on the same side.

Now there are no sides. There is no _us._ Even Memphis, who, over the course of the last few days, I've come to know and respect. Even Silver, with whom I have more in common than I would have thought possible for someone who's not a fellow soldier. I care about them both. Every instinct is telling me to protect them. To fight alongside them so that we can come home together.

But we can't. That's not how this is going to end, no matter how much I want it to. We can't all come home. And, most likely, it won't be any of us who walk out of that arena alive. The deck is stacked against us. The Gamemakers made that clear from Memphis' score. They're not about to let a known rebel leave the Games alive.

So I'm trying not to get my hopes up as District Six fades from the screen. I did my best to demonstrate my skills, of course. I fought their trainer with a variety of axes, chopping a bit of wood in between bouts. But maybe it was all for nothing. If they gave Memphis a low score just because he's a rebel, then can I really expect anything else?

Finally, Silver's face appears on the screen. "From District Seven – Silver Grayne, with a score of five."

Silver's face lights up. Apparently, she had been expecting what I had – that we would receive low scores simply because of our ties to the rebellion. But whatever she showed the Gamemakers was apparently good enough to change their minds. It's not an amazingly high score, of course, but it's a lot better than the one she was clearly expecting.

I barely have time to wonder what that might mean for my own score before my own face appears onscreen. "Simon Galley, with a score of ten."

Ten. I glance over at Silver, then at Tyrone, who's watching the screen silently. "What happened?" I hate asking him for an explanation for anything, but if he has some sort of inside information that might help…

"I'm not sure," Tyrone admits. "I can only guess, just like you. But, if I had to take a guess, I'd say that Memphis did something to defy them, while you showed that you're capable of playing along with their game. Maybe they're willing to ignore what you did during the war – at least for the moment – as long as you give them a good show."

I hesitate as I glance back at the screen. Is that the answer? Honestly, it never occurred to me to do anything other than what I did. To go in there and do anything but my best. But, in doing so, did I end up playing right into their hands? Am I already playing their game? That's something I told myself I wouldn't do.

And the thought still sickens me – the thought of going along with their demands, of killing the other tributes just because they said so. I'd been assuming from the start that they simply had it in for me – that, one way or the other, I was going to end up dead. I never bothered to think that maybe … maybe if I play along, I have a chance of surviving.

But is that a chance I want? If it comes at the price of playing along with their Games, of slaughtering children for their entertainment – is that a life I really want? Is it worth the price? Is it worth my conscience, my self-respect, my sense of purpose, just to live a little longer? The soldier in me is screaming, _No._ Insisting that I stay true to my beliefs, no matter what.

But there's another part of me. A part that I haven't listened to in a long time. A part that's still just a boy. A child. An eighteen-year-old who has so much of his life left to live. A part that's telling me that I can deal with the guilt later. That I can deal with my conscience later. That, right now, none of that is important. That it _can't_ be important, if I want to survive.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

None of this is really important. The training, the scores, the interviews – it's all just for show. That much, at least, has been clear from the scores so far. And that much, at least, Eve seems to understand as she wraps an arm around each of our shoulders. "Now, remember, it doesn't matter how well you score now," she insists gently. "All that really matters is what you do during the Games."

She's half right, I guess. She's right that our scores now don't matter one bit. If we needed any more proof of that, District Seven's scores are exactly what I mean. The boy scored a ten, while one of his allies – clearly just as strong and capable – scored a one. The numbers are meaningless.

But what we do in the arena – ultimately, that's just as meaningless. No matter what we do, most of us are going to die. Our three days of training aren't going to change that. Getting a perfect score of twelve wouldn't change it. And wowing the entire Capitol audience with an amazing interview isn't going to change it. None of it will change the fact that we're going to die.

But, by the same token, wasting those three days of training isn't going to make our fate any worse. Getting a one isn't going to spoil our chances. And being utterly unlikable in an interview doesn't seal our fate. We're going to die. Nothing we can do will make it better or worse. And that's not a good or bad thing. It simply is.

Finally, District Seven fades from the screen, and my face appears. "From District Eight – Neblina Acosta, with a score of four." Eve gives my shoulder a squeeze, and I nod my appreciation. As reluctant as I might be to admit it, she _has_ been helpful over the last few days, and her presence _has_ been comforting. Maybe she's not as talkative or bubbly as some of the other districts' escorts, but that suits me just fine.

"Kennedy Ford, with a score of five," Noelle's voice continues. Kennedy smiles a little – maybe pleased that he scored better than I did, at least. And if that makes him feel better, then it's a small victory I'm perfectly willing to let him have. If that's what he needs to give him a little comfort, a little more confidence, then so be it.

"Almost as good as my allies," he notes, obviously pleased with that fact. And it's true. Vance scored a seven, Carina a six. His five is in the same range, and maybe it's only natural that he's proud of that.

Before any of us can give him a reply, however, his picture fades from the screen, quickly replaced with Sienna's. "From District Nine – Sienna Poplar, with a score of nine."

Even I have to admit, I wasn't expecting that. Everyone else seemed a bit surprised by the pair from Five, but I'd been watching them from the start. Over the course of three days, they'd slowly moved from more harmless-seeming stations like plant identification to more threatening ones like spear-making and throwing. It makes sense that their growth in confidence would result in a high score.

Sienna, on the other hand – there was nothing in particular to make anyone notice her. She spent almost all of her time with her younger district partner. But maybe that was an act. Or maybe the Gamemakers simply want us to _think_ it was an act, to _think_ she's a threat. But what advantage would there be in that? Why try to get us to target a girl from District Nine?

Because the tributes with higher scores will almost certainly be targeted. So getting a higher score isn't quite as desirable as it might seem. Still, the Capitol will almost certainly be impressed by Sienna's score.

The same, however, can't be said of her district partner, whose name appears on the screen next, along with an announcement of, "Peter Eldamar, with a score of three." Not bad, I suppose, for a thirteen-year-old kid. The other younger tributes haven't been scoring particularly high, either. The boy from Three got a two, and the boy from One got a four. Then again, that's the same as my score, so…

 _It doesn't matter_ , I remind myself as Noelle continues. "From District Ten – Aubrey Ryans, with a score of six." Average. About what most people were probably expecting. If they were expecting anything. Most people won't be paying attention to a pair of tributes from District Ten. Most people – especially in the audience – have probably already stopped listening. So many numbers. So many names.

"Colt Hawkins, with a score of six." A perfect match for his district partner, just like a few others so far. Maybe the Capitol knows they're a team. Maybe it's just coincidence. Maybe it doesn't matter. Working together or not, they'll both be dead soon enough, just like the rest of us.

* * *

 **Aldous Clement, 17  
** **District Eleven**

It'll be over soon enough. That's what I keep telling myself as face after face appears onscreen. So many faces. So many names. So many people who will be dead soon.

Soon. The word seems to have a bit more meaning now. Tomorrow morning, we'll be in the arena. Only an evening of interviews and a good night's sleep stand between us and the Games. I swallow hard, my good arm wrapped tightly around Felicity's shoulders. I've been putting on as brave a face as I can, but, now that it comes down to it, I'm not ready for it to be over. I'm not ready to die.

No one ever is, I suppose. Even during the war, even when death was expected, none of us were ever really prepared for it. I wasn't prepared to die three years ago, when I thought I was going to after my injury. And I'm not prepared now.

But if there's one thing I learned about death during the war, it's that death doesn't wait for you to be prepared. Death doesn't care about whether you're ready for it. Death can come in the middle of a sentence as you're saying goodbye to the person you love most. Death can come as you're begging and pleading for your life. And sometimes death can come silently, peacefully, in your sleep.

And none of us really have any control over when death will find us. I don't know how I'm going to die in the Games. I don't know who's going to kill me. I don't even know whether it'll be a person that kills me, or whether I'll die of hunger or thirst or maybe even some poisoned food. I'm going to die – that much, I've known since the start. Since the moment my name was called at the reaping. It's just a matter of how, and when, and what I do until that moment.

So I've been focusing on trying to make every moment count. Using whatever time I have left to give as much comfort as I can. Especially to Felicity, I suppose – maybe because no one else is going to. Lucius hasn't offered so much as a kind word, and her ally Horario seems more concerned with keeping himself alive.

Which I can't fault him for, I suppose. In his position, I might be doing the same thing. Fighting to survive. Doing whatever I could to stay alive.

But I'm not in his position. And I never will be. So I simply watch, silently, as face after face appears on the screen. Finally, Felicity's face appears. "From District Eleven – Felicity DeBrier, with a score of three."

Felicity's trembling a little as I draw her closer. "Nice job. A three's not bad." Her partner, Horario, only scored a four, after all – and he's a little older. A little stronger.

Felicity shakes her head. "I was expecting … I don't know what I was expecting."

I nod a little. She was hoping to do better. Hoping that what she had done might have been enough to impress the Gamemakers. But, in a way, maybe a low score is a good thing. If a fourteen-year-old from District Eleven had scored, say, an eight or nine, it would have raised eyebrows. It would have gotten her attention, yes – but not necessarily the sort of attention she wants. As it is, no one will be paying much attention to her or Horario.

But saying that won't help, so I simply hold her close as my own face appears on the screen. "Aldous Clement, with a score of two."

It's not a surprise – for anyone. I give Felicity's shoulder a little squeeze. "See? You did better than me?" Felicity finally smiles a little, but I can tell my words weren't particularly comforting.

But what else can I say? My score is pretty much what we all expected. Apparently, my medical knowledge was enough to save me from getting a one, but these Games aren't about medicine. The Gamemakers don't really care how well I can heal people. How well I can comfort them and make them smile. None of those things are going to help me in the arena.

Or, at least, none of those things are going to help me stay _alive_. But they may help me stay sane. They might help me stay calm when the end comes. They might help me die with a little dignity.

Part of me, though – the part that spent three years patching up wounds in the cold and the mud, surrounded by blood and screams and the smell of death – knows that dignity in death is a fantasy. A dream concocted to help the patients' loved ones sleep at night. In the end, we all die helpless. We all die afraid. In the end, the best we can hope for is that we don't die alone.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

As score after score flashes across the screen, I can't help a feeling of relief that I'm going to be alone in the arena. Some of the scores were close to what I expected. Some weren't. Some were higher, some lower. But none of them are people who I want to trust in the arena.

I can't help wondering how many of them really trust each other – these groups that have decided to team up. How long will it be before one of them realizes that the other person is competition? Elijah, for example – he's working with the girl from One. But surely they both realize that they can't work together forever.

My thoughts are interrupted as Noelle finally gets to us. "From District Twelve – Tullia Litvina, with a score of three."

Elijah winces sympathetically, but Grant doesn't even bother to hide a scoff. "Typical. Well, there goes your chance of impressing the Capitol."

I bite my tongue as he turns back to the screen, completely unconcerned. And why should he be? He hasn't bothered with me ever since the reaping. He's been paying more attention to Elijah since the train rides. Why should I expect that to change now?

But, if I'm being honest, there's a part of me that was hoping it would. That if I got a good enough score, if I managed to impress him, he might decide that it's worth his time to help me. But now…

"Elijah Maleri, with a score of nine." Grant lets out a whistle, clearly impressed, and I know that any shot I had of earning his support is long gone. As long as Elijah is alive, he's Grant's best option for bringing someone home. As long as Elijah is alive…

No. No matter how much I might want Grant's help – maybe even his approval – I can't let him turn us against each other. That's what they want: to tear us apart. To make us see each other as enemies, and our escort as a benevolent helper who can save our lives. To make us forget that the Capitol is the enemy – the enemy we fought for years. Grant doesn't want to help either of us – not really. And I'm certainly not about to turn on Elijah to earn his help. It isn't worth it.

What has Elijah ever done to me, after all? Sure, he scored higher than me, but it's not his fault I scored so low. I can't exactly blame him for doing his best. For showing the Gamemakers what he's capable of.

And I have to admit, there's a part of me that's impressed. His nine is one of the best scores overall. The only two who scored higher were the girl from Two and the boy from Seven, both clearly trained soldiers. And the only one who scored the same is the girl from Nine.

In fact, the highest score was only a ten – one point higher than him. That seems strange, now that I think about it. Didn't they say the scores were going to range from one to twelve? Why set twelve as the highest score if you're not going to give anyone a twelve or even an eleven?

Maybe it's a mind game. Their way of telling us that even the best-prepared of us aren't _really_ the best. That no one is _really_ prepared for the task ahead. And that much is true, at least. We're not ready. _I'm_ not ready. Three days of training and a day of showing off what skills we've learned aren't enough to really prepare anyone. None of us are really ready. There's no way we could be.

But tomorrow, we'll have to be. Tomorrow, it won't matter that none of us feel prepared for this. Tomorrow, it won't matter that I scored a three and Elijah scored a nine. Tomorrow, we'll all be in the same arena. We'll all be expected to fight. We'll all be expected to kill.

But other than that – the fact that we'll be fighting each other, killing each other – the truth is we really have no idea of what to expect. No idea what's going to happen in the arena. Or even how we're getting there. Or when we'll be leaving. Or what we'll be wearing. Or—

 _Stop it._ I clench my fists tightly, trying to stop myself from shaking. I can't worry about that right now. First, I have to get through tonight. Through an interview that I'm just as unprepared for as I am for the Games. I have no idea what they're going to ask. What I'm supposed to say. And as Grant and Elijah leave the room together, it's clear they're not the least bit interested in helping me prepare. That I'm going to have to figure this out on my own.

I shake my head as the screen switches off. I'll show them. I'll show both of them. They think I'm as good as dead already, but I'm not. I have just as good a chance as anyone else. Maybe even better, because no one will see me coming. No one thinks I can do this. Which means it'll be even more satisfying when I prove them wrong.

* * *

 **Scores are now up on the website along with alliances. Which scores were you expecting? Which were a surprise?**

 **Interviews are up next, with pov's from the eight tributes who didn't get one in either this chapter or the last one.**


	18. Everything About Everyone

**Everything About Everyone**

 _"They all know about me anyway. Everybody knows everything about everyone. What's the point of trying to keep a secret in a place like this?"_

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

 _Just like Lincoln told you._ I clench my hands tightly to keep myself from fidgeting with my outfit, a dark blue suit with a _lot_ of buttons. Just right for fiddling with. But I can't. That's one of the first things Lincoln told me about interviews: Don't fidget. Make eye contact. Speak clearly.

The first two probably aren't going to be much of a problem, but the third … well, let's just say I'll consider this interview a success if I manage a well-formed sentence or two. I'm not expecting a miracle, despite Lincoln's insistence that I've improved. Maybe if we had a few months to work together…

But we don't. We've barely had a day. And he's been helpful. More helpful, maybe, than I have any right to expect. We're competition, after all. Sure, we're partners now, but eventually…

No. No, I don't want to think about eventually. Not now. Okay. Breathe. Clarisse is onstage now, explaining how she volunteered because it seemed like a grand adventure – the sort of glorious adventure you don't find in the districts every day. It's a load of crap, obviously. When her mother came to say goodbye, she practically shouted that she had volunteered to show the Capitol she wasn't afraid.

And maybe it's a silly reason, but I haven't said so. I owe her that much, at least. If she hadn't volunteered, I would never have considered the idea that volunteering was possible. Whatever chance I have in the Games, whatever slim chance of victory I have, I owe part of that to her.

Finally, Clarisse is finished. The audience applauds as she leaves the stage, and Noelle beams out at the audience. "Thank you, Clarisse, for those inspirational words. Now, let's have a warm round of applause for Maverick Sterling!"

That's my cue. But, suddenly, I can't move. When Clarisse and I watched the reapings, I didn't understand why some of the tributes simply stood there, dumbfounded. Now I do. For a moment, my legs simply won't work. Then one of the boys behind me – Vance, I think – gives me a gentle nudge. Slowly, my feet begin to move, until I'm standing onstage, looking out at the audience. I try to smile. But I'm not entirely sure my mouth is working right, either, because Noelle leans forward and whispers gently, "It's okay to be nervous, dear. Have a seat."

A seat. Of course. I sit down as quickly as I can, almost missing the chair in my hurry. A few giggles rise from the audience. I clench my fists tighter as Noelle smiles warmly, trying to help me recover my wits. "Well, Maverick, have you been enjoying the Capitol?"

Good. Easy question. Obvious answer. I nod, trying to appear enthusiastic. "Yes!" But when Noelle doesn't ask another question, I freeze. Am I supposed to say more? She gives me a slight nod. More. What else should I say? What else _can_ I say? "Yes. Much. Very. Very much." I can hear Lincoln's voice in the back of my mind. _Don't repeat yourself._ But I can't help it. I can't think of anything else to say.

I'm so panicked, I miss the next question entirely. I saw Noelle's mouth move, but … no, this one I can't blame on my hearing. Her microphone is plenty loud. I just sort of … blanked, I guess. "What?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't – can't—"

"Oh, I am _so_ sorry," Noelle apologizes, even though none of it is her fault. "Your escort told me – about your hearing. About what happened during the war." She raises her voice a little. "Can you tell the audience a little about that?"

She covered for me. Why is she helping me? Whatever the reason, it can't hurt to play along. I raise my left hand to the side of my face. "In alleyway – mine. A mine. Exploded."

Noelle nods encouragingly. "And tell me, Maverick, what were you doing in that alley on your own? What happened to your family?"

She knows. She has to. She wouldn't ask if she didn't know. "Dead. All dead. Fighting for the Capitol. My mother – father – Capitol military. Died when—" I stop there. I don't know how they died. I don't know _if_ they're dead. No. They're dead. I take a deep breath, then try again. "Died fighting the rebels."

"That was very brave of them," Noelle agrees. "Now, Maverick, we're almost out of time, but I feel I should ask the question everyone's wondering: Why did you volunteer?"

For a moment, I hesitate. Lincoln and I practiced this one. We knew they would ask. They would be stupid not to. There's so much I want to say. I want to tell them that, because of the rebellion, because of the rebels who killed my parents, I've been living on the streets like an animal. Scrounging for food. Huddling in alleys and shop doorways for warmth at night. Living off what I can find and beg and steal. I want to tell them how wonderful, how enticing, the promise of a better life was – is – for someone like me.

But the words … I don't have the words. I never seem to have the right words. "Better," I say at last. "Better than … what I had."

Noelle smiles warmly – a warmth that almost seems genuine. "I'm sure your parents would be very proud."

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

 _Better than what I had?_ I barely contain a scoff as the little boy makes his way off the stage, quickly replaced by the girl from Two, who, to my surprise, claps the boy on the shoulder as they pass. Maybe it makes sense, I suppose, for Capitol supporters to stick together.

But she's much more confident during her interview, snapping off answers to Noelle's questions as if she's rehearsed them. Maybe she has. Maverick may have the sort of loyalty the Capitol wants to see, but she has the experience. The training. Even Vance, who scored the highest out of our alliance, seems rather dull by comparison when he takes her place, dodging questions about his family and shrugging off praise for his high training score. And if that's how _he_ seems…

I shake the thought from my head as the crowd cheers for Vance, nonetheless. Why should I care what the audience thinks of me? Why should I care whether I seem interesting enough? They're not the ones who are going to be in the arena. I am. And if I'm going to make it out, I can't waste time worrying about them. I need to worry about myself.

But, for the next three minutes, I have to at least _pretend_ to care what they think. So I smile as I pass Vance on the way to the stage, then take a seat in one of their large, comfortable-looking couches. Like everything else here, they're not nearly as comfortable as they look. They're just for show. A façade. An act that I want nothing to do with.

"Welcome, Carina!" Noelle's smile is silly, and just as fake as everything else. She can pretend to like each of us all she wants. We all know the truth. Twenty-three of us are going to be dead soon. She doesn't really care. She can't. If she did, she wouldn't be sitting here.

And if _I_ ever want to be sitting here, in the Capitol, again, then I can't care, either. I have to pretend – at least for a little while – that this is exactly where I want to be. So I return her plastic smile. "Thank you so much, Noelle. It's lovely to be here! I've been having such a _wonderful_ time."

"Glad to hear it. What's been your favorite part so far?"

 _None of it._ I honestly can't think of one thing I've enjoyed. "Oh, it's all been so exciting, I couldn't possibly pick." I lean forward a little. "But I can tell you what my favorite part is _going_ to be."

Noelle gladly takes the bait. "And what's that?"

"When I'm sitting here again, alive – as a Victor."

"Confidence – I like that. And I'm sure your family at home in District Three is delighted you have such faith in your chances."

I shake my head, avoiding the obvious invitation to talk about my family. I don't want to say a word about any of them. "Not in my chances. In myself. This has nothing to do with luck, or numbers, or the odds. This is about each of us, and what we're willing to do to survive."

"Well said," Noelle grins. "Now, I do have one more question. Word has gotten out that some of the tributes have formed smaller groups – _alliances_ , if you will – and that you might be working with a few of the others."

"Vance and Kennedy," I confirm. No reason to hide it. The other tributes already know – we haven't exactly been trying to keep it a secret – and the audience would have found out soon enough, anyway.

"I see," Noelle muses. "And I'm told you and Vance have something in common. His mother was executed for treason during the war. Your sister was committed to an asylum for … attacking a Peacekeeper, I believe?" I say nothing, but my silence is apparently enough. "Is that the common ground that brought you together – a desire to redeem yourselves for the actions of your wayward relatives?"

It's obvious what she wants me to say. That my sister was wrong. That Vance's mother – whatever she did – was wrong. That we're going to prove our loyalty to the Capitol and would never do anything of the sort, blah, blah blah.

It would be easy. Easy to lie. To agree with her. To pledge my allegiance to the Capitol and swear to go into the arena fighting to reclaim my family's honor. It's what they want to hear. It's the story they want to tell.

But it's not the story they'll get.

I turn towards the audience. "My sister did what she did. Vance's mother did what she did. I'm not my sister. Vance isn't his mother. We don't have anything to apologize for. To make up for. We're not here to atone for what our relatives did. I'm not here to make up for anything that _anyone_ in my family has done. I'm here to survive. I'm here to win. And it has nothing – _nothing_ – to do with my family."

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

It looks like I'm not the only one whose family has a few kinks. It seems like every tribute on the stage has something to say about their family. Or something they _don't_ want to say. It's a bit strange to hear, to be honest. It's been a long time since I've heard someone – _anyone_ – sit down and just _talk_ about themselves. Most of us in the districts have learned not to be that open. To be a bit more reserved, more guarded. Paranoid, even. You never want to say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

But now everyone is acting like it doesn't matter. And maybe it doesn't. It's not as if the Capitol doesn't know this stuff, anyway. It's no surprise to them that Maverick's parents died fighting for the Capitol, that Gardenia was trained as a soldier in their army. They weren't shocked to learn that Vance's mother had been executed or that Carina's sister had attacked a Peacekeeper.

Nor is it a surprise to them that Lincoln's parents were instrumental in breeding many of the mutts the Capitol used during the war. They clearly knew that Bliss' family is very loyal to the Capitol, and that Memphis – the son of the former mayor of District Four – is not. And me? Well, I can't say for sure what they know about me. But they almost certainly know that Peacekeepers killed my father, and it doesn't take long to piece together how I felt about the war.

Then again, most of the other tributes probably felt the same way. They don't come right out and say it, but it's there. The fear. The resentment. It's obvious that Lincoln's family only helped the Capitol out of fear. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that if Carina were as pro-Capitol as the rest of her family, she would certainly have said so. That's the way it went during the war, too. Deep down, most people wanted the Rebellion to succeed. They were just too damn frightened to do anything about it.

And the same thing is happening now. They're playing along – all of them – because they're convinced it's the only way they'll survive. And maybe it is. But that doesn't make it any better. And it doesn't make playing along the right thing to do.

The right thing to do. During the war, it was clear what that was. The right thing was fighting for our freedom, helping out in any way I could. Ever since then, though … it's not so clear. We did what we thought was the right thing. And we lost. So what do we do now?

Crescent, at least, doesn't seem to want to play along with their game. She ignores every question about her family, flatly refusing to give personal details. What does she have to hide? Who knows? And, in the end, who cares? Why is it my business? Why is it _any_ of their business?

Finally, Crescent's time is up, and I take her place. She's scowling as she makes her way from the stage, and I can't blame her. We each get three minutes. Three minutes to convince the Capitol that we have a chance in hell of surviving. Three minutes, and they think they know everything there is to know about us. Our history. Our families. Three minutes, and they think they know our chances of survival.

I take a seat next to Noelle, plopping down in their fancy-looking red chair that's probably supposed to look comfortable. Or maybe comforting. One last bit of comfort before the arena. Before our blood starts to spill, red as the chair beneath me. But it's not comforting. It's annoying as hell, just like the rest of this grand show. I don't want to be here any more than anyone else, but there's a part of me that wishes we were in the arena already. That we could stop pretending and just start…

Start what? Killing each other? Because that's what we're waiting for. That's what's coming after this. Tomorrow. Do I really want this to be over – the lights, the cameras, the show? Do I really want to move on to whatever's next?

"Welcome, Icho!" Noelle practically shouts, grinning broadly. "We're so happy that you're here."

Something about that does it. There's a part of me that wants to get up and storm off the stage, or maybe punch her in her smug, smiling Capitol face. But, instead of curses, what emerges from my mouth is laughter. A chuckle at first, but soon I'm laughing so hard, I'm afraid I might fall out of my chair. I glance up at Noelle, who's confused as hell, but that just makes it even funnier.

"Care to share the joke?" she asks at last, apparently at a loss for anything else to say.

"The joke?" I repeat between bursts of laughter. "The joke is _you_. The joke is _this_. The joke is the fact that any of you honestly, truly believe that any of _us_ are 'happy' to be here. That this is something to be excited about. The joke is the fact that you think this is a game. And the _biggest joke_ —" I'm rocking back and forth with laughter now. "The _biggest_ joke is that everyone else is apparently going to just go along with your stupid, _stupid_ act. You want to kill us? You want us to kill each other? Fine. But we won't enjoy it. We'll never enjoy it. Maybe you will – maybe you're really _that_ sick – but we won't. Never."

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

You have to give him points for honesty, I suppose – and maybe for guts, too – but that kid _seriously_ needs to calm down. Yeah, this sucks. But it isn't going to get any better just because you throw a tantrum about it. At least he had the good sense to try to make a joke out of it rather than just yelling, but still. What good does he think his little fuss is going to do?

It certainly isn't going to do him any good – him or his district partner. Everyone else has been pretty much playing along, going with the flow. Even Memphis, who seems a bit surly overall, was relatively calm as he answered questions about himself and his family. Granted, those answers involved killing his own father, but you have to give him at least a little credit for keeping a cool head.

Keeping a cool head. I can't help snickering at the thought as Icho's time mercifully comes to an end. Maybe I have a reputation for being a bit … unpredictable? Impulsive? But even I wouldn't go and do something like that. Well, _maybe_ … but only if I'd had a few drinks first. Icho is tragically sober.

Noelle manages a smile, trying to pull herself together as I join her onstage. "Quite an eventful night," I remark before she can even get a word out. "Don't worry; only seven more districts to go."

Noelle chuckles a little, maybe amused by the irony. By the fact that _I'm_ the one offering her a little bit of encouragement, no matter how shallow. "An eventful night, indeed," she agrees. "But maybe that's only fitting. It's going to be an eventful morning, too. Do you have anything special planned?"

 _If I did, do you really think I would tell you?_ But what comes out of my mouth, instead, is, "Nothing in particular. Never been much of one for plans. Take life as it comes, I suppose. Live and let live. Or, well, die and let die, I guess, but that doesn't have quite the ring to it." I shrug. "Looks like I need a new motto."

The audience gets a bit of a laugh out of that. Good. Icho's right that we'll never enjoy killing each other – or, at least, I hope he's right – but we might as well find whatever fun we can, _wherever_ we can. What's the point in going to our deaths crying and screaming and bemoaning the fact that we have so few days left? None of us know how many days we have left, anyway. These Games certainly aren't any worse than the war, and all of us onstage got through that.

"Maybe I can help with that – a motto, that is," Noelle suggests. "What do you like to do back in District Six?"

I shrug. "For the last three years? Try not to die. And try not to let too many other people die, either. My mother and I ran a medical center. I picked up a bit. Maybe I wouldn't say I _like_ to do it, but…"

But what? If I'm being honest, there was a part of me that _did_ enjoy it – and not just the drugs. There was part of me – maybe a part of me that was still a little girl – that enjoyed the thought of saving other people from death. Of having some small hand in keeping them safe and alive. But if I admit that…

If I admit it, what will they think? Aldous told me what he did during his private session with the Gamemakers, and it got him one of the lowest scores of all. Well, that and his bum leg and missing arm. That probably had something to do with it, too. But he was right that the Gamemakers don't want to see us put people back together. They don't want to see us trying to help people live. They want us to kill each other.

 _They want us to_. Since when have I been worried about what anyone else wants me to do? Why should they start controlling my life now? "You know what? I _did_ like it. I _do_ like it. And I don't think there's any shame in admitting that. I mean, if you'd wanted a Hunger Games full of experienced killers, I don't think you would have picked a bunch of children."

Noelle raises an eyebrow, but I'm on a roll. "None of us are killers – well, not _many_ of us. Not yet. And that's the fun. If you were to stick twenty-four soldiers an arena, you'd just get a war. And we just had three years of war. You don't want more war any more than we do.

"But that's the point. None of us wanted this – not really. None of us really want to be here. I'm sure most of you wish it wasn't necessary for us to be here. But here we are. So we might as well make the best of it. I'm not a killer – not now – but if a killer is what I have to become in order to survive, then that's what I'll do."

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

 _Nobody wanted this._ Everyone keeps saying that – maybe hoping that, if they repeat it enough, they might be able to forgive themselves for what they're doing. Nobody wanted the war. Nobody wanted so many people to die. Nobody wanted twenty-four children to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death.

But Paean's right. It's happening. And we're all powerless to stop it. But if we start to enjoy it – if we give them that satisfaction – then they've won. And that's something we can't allow. Something we can _never_ allow.

Paean's time seems to fly by as she and Noelle trade jokes. Horario is much more serious, quietly answering questions about District Six. About his family.

His family. I'm honestly not sure what to expect when my turn comes. Will she ask about my family? Surely she already knows what happened. Surely the Capitol realizes that mentioning it would only draw sympathy from the audience. After all, anyone who thinks that an entire family should be tortured and killed because _two_ of them distributed a few pamphlets is…

Is what? A monster? But isn't that what they are? What we were always told they are? I guess I'll get my answer soon, because the crowd is cheering for Horario. Strange, how they've managed to muster a hearty round of applause for each of us – even the most rebellious. Maybe they really _aren't_ all that interested in the politics of it all. Maybe they just want a good show.

I take a deep breath as I pass Horario on my way to the stage. _Okay. Breathe. You can do this._ I take a seat next to Noelle, trying my best to smile. To pretend. To pretend for one moment – for three minutes, actually – that everything is okay.

But as soon as Noelle looks at me, it's clear that everything is _not_ okay. Her smile is gone, replaced by the same stern look I've come to expect from General Tyrone. "I have some sad news for you tonight, Silver. I am sorry – truly, I am – for what I have to say."

She's not. None of them are. None of them are really sorry. If they were, I wouldn't be sitting here, and my family wouldn't be…

"Silver, I'm sorry to have to tell you that your mother died this morning. Your aunt Lucia died the day before, your uncle Elmer the day you entered the Capitol. Your father and your cousin Leo, however, are still alive." She leans forward and lays a hand on mine. "Would you like to see them?"

 _No. Of course not._ Watching the Peacekeepers nail them to their crosses was horrible enough. I don't want to see them now. I don't want to watch.

But Noelle clearly isn't waiting for an actual answer. My grip on the arms of the chair tightens as the lights dim a little, and the screen behind us lights up, the images visible not only to Noelle and me, but to the entire audience. The entire Capitol. All of Panem.

Their crosses still circle the district square – that's the first thing I can see as the camera begins to zoom in. But most of the bodies are now mercifully lifeless. I can see a few crows, perched on the wooden stakes, pecking away at the dead bodies. A few of the corpses barely look human anymore.

But then the camera focuses on Leo, and my stomach churns. He's not dead – not yet. His whole body is limp, helpless. But I can see his chest heaving up and down. For a moment, I can hear his raspy breaths. And when the camera finds his face, I can see the tears in his eyes. Tears of agony and despair.

In only one eye, really, because the other is gone, leaving only an empty eye socket. I can feel a sob in the back of my throat. How often have I seen the birds come and peck out the eyes of the dead and dying alike? How often have I simply looked away?

But I don't look away now. The camera finds my father next, and now I don't even bother to hide my tears. My father, who was always so strong, is now helpless to do anything but hang there in pain, watching as our family dies around him, powerless to save any of them.

Any of us. I might not be hanging there alongside them, but the point is clear. I'm as good as dead. I was as good as dead the moment I stepped forward at the reaping. I wipe the tears from my eyes, but more take their place.

I don't say anything. Can't say anything. The audience is silent. What is there to say? What is there to do? My mother, my aunt and uncle – they're all dead. My father and Leo will be dead soon. And me? Will it be sooner than them? Later?

Maybe it doesn't matter. The same fate awaits us all, in the end. And even the audience knows it, because there's no applause as I leave the stage and Simon takes my place. Nothing at all. And maybe they're right. Why applaud the dead?

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

It takes a while for both Noelle and the audience to recover their sense of humor after what we saw in District Seven. It's hard to watch something like that even if you _don't_ know the person who's dying. I can't imagine what it must be like for Silver and Simon.

And the truth is, I don't want to imagine it. Most of me wants to simply forget what I just saw. But that's easier said than done. Both Neblina and Kennedy are rather quiet during their interviews, much more subdued than they might have been otherwise. Or maybe not. Neither of them seems particularly talkative, anyway.

Sienna doesn't seem to have much to say, either. She mentions her younger siblings, but doesn't go into details about what happened to the rest of her family. Not that I blame her. If my family had sided with the rebels, I'd probably keep quiet about it, too. Most of the tributes so far have had the sense to either not mention any connection to the rebels or, like Carina, to distance themselves from any rebellious relatives.

The problem is, most of the tributes haven't come up with anything clever to say _instead._ So once they rule out talking about their rebellious families, they don't have much material left to work with. _I_ , on the other hand, have plenty of stories to tell.

I considered going with the double-agent routine I fed my stylists. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you shouldn't repeat the same lie too often. People might start to notice if the little details aren't the same every time – and that's suspicious. But if the entire _story_ is different, _that's_ intriguing. Instead of forcing people to question whether or not your story is true, people start to ask _which_ of your stories are true. And that's much more exciting.

And 'exciting' is the name of the game, I remind myself as Sienna makes her way offstage and I take her place, a big grin plastered all over my face. Because let's be honest. I'm not going to win this thing by brute force. But if I can win over some of the people in the Capitol, that might play in my favor. And I'm certainly not going to win them over with my skills, so what does that leave? My stories. And that's a much better playing field.

After a few more somber interviews, Noelle looks relieved to see someone with a smile. "Hello, Peter. You certainly seem to be in a good mood."

I give her a little shrug and dive right in. "And why shouldn't I be? I'm home."

She's not quite sure what to make of that at first. "Home? Do you mean it's like you're at home?" she asks, trying to help. "That you're at home on stage? In the spotlight?"

Not a bad guess, of course, but not where I was going. I hold back a chuckle. "No, no, no, I mean I'm _really_ home. This is where I belong."

"Because of your loyalty to the Capitol?" Noelle guesses. Again, not bad, but I shake my head. "Then what do you mean?"

 _That's it. Just let me talk._ "It all started thirteen years ago, you see. Travel between the districts and the Capitol was a bit more common then – or, at least, so I hear. I don't really remember it. Anyway, a woman from the Capitol had come to the district with her husband on a business trip. She was pregnant, and, while she was there, she gave birth.

"Now, it just so happened that, on the same day in District Nine, another woman gave birth. A woman who only wanted the best for her baby, but a woman whose young son, unfortunately, was born blind. Now, in the Capitol, she had heard, there were doctors who could cure this sort of blindness. But how – _how_ – to get her son to the Capitol?"

Noelle's leaning forward now with a curious look. A look that tells me everything I need to know: I have the audience in the palm of my hand. They can see where I'm going with this, but they want to hear it from me. "Seeing the woman's distress, one of the nurses suggested some company might be nice. As it happened, the Capitol woman was the only other woman in the ward that day. As the two sat side by side, holding their little babies, they reached an agreement. They would switch sons – but only for a little while. Only long enough for the child from District Nine to be brought to the Capitol and receive treatment to cure his blindness. Meanwhile, the woman from District Nine would care for the other child as if for her own.

"How could they have known? How could they have anticipated that travel from the districts to the Capitol – and vice versa – was about to become much more restricted? How could they have guessed that, all too soon, violence would become more common, and that within ten short years, a full-fledged rebellion would break out? Neither of them ever meant for the exchange to be permanent, but it has been … until now."

I turn towards the audience. " _I_ am the child. The child born to a Capitol woman and left in the care of a mother from District Nine. A mother who has loved me and sheltered me in the hopes of returning me one day to my rightful place – here, among you. And now here I am." I turn back to Noelle, who has tears in her eyes. "I'm home."

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

He's clever – you have to give him that. The audience is roaring with applause by the time Peter rises to leave the stage. What he said was complete bullshit, of course. If he were a Capitol citizen, he would have said so at the reaping. He would have demanded to be excluded from the district's punishment because of his status. At the very least, he would have asked his "real" mother to come and verify the story.

Still, the audience eats it up because … well, to be honest, I'm not sure why. It's such a blatant, ridiculous lie, they should be demanding proof. Or, at the very least, they should be upset by the thought of sending one of their own into the Games. But they're not. They're delighted. The crowd is still cheering as I make my way past Peter, who's still grinning from ear to ear, completely satisfied with his performance.

And maybe he has a right to be. He gave a good show. But it could come back to bite him – hard – if any of the more rebellious tributes believe a word of it. I'm not that gullible, but for some of the others, the opportunity to kill someone who _might_ be a Capitol citizen would be too good to resist.

But even if it were true … _would_ he be a Capitolite? He grew up in District Nine. In the same conditions the rest of us have had to endure. Maybe the fact that his mother was a Capitolite wouldn't even matter. For all real intents and purposes, he's one of us.

One of us. One of them. It doesn't matter, really, because it _wasn't true._ I shake my head as I take a seat next to Noelle, who can't help but notice. "Care to share your thoughts?"

No. If they're stupid enough to believe his lies, they deserve to be conned. "I just don't know if I can top that," I shrug, which earns a laugh from the audience. "My life really hasn't been that exciting."

Noelle leans forward a little. "Oh, I don't know about that."

 _Shit._ What does she mean? Does she know? Does she know who I am? What I did? I put on my best clueless expression. "What do you mean?"

Noelle shakes her head. "Oh, I think you know _exactly_ what I mean. Are you going to tell them, or shall I? Should I tell them what happened to your parents? To your family? And what you did afterwards?

So she does know. And she's going to tell them. Unless I do. Okay. Okay, I can do this. I'm not like Simon or Silver. I don't have anyone the Capitol can use against me. No one they can torture and kill in order to hurt me. They already took everyone I care about. The only person I have to worry about is myself.

Now I just have to try not to get myself killed.

"I was thirteen when the fighting broke out," I begin. "We didn't want any part in the war. We weren't soldiers. I was just a little girl. My parents did their best to protect us … but they couldn't protect us from the bombs. I was at a friend's house when the sirens went off, and we all took shelter. When I went back home, my family was gone."

"Gone," Noelle repeats. "You mean they were dead."

"They were killed." I turn to the audience. _Breathe._ "Imagine – just for a moment – that our positions were reversed. That it was the districts that were bombing the Capitol. Imagine your family, your friends, had been killed. Now imagine it happened when you were younger. A child. Impressionable. Emotional. What would you want to do?" I turn back to Noelle. "What would _you_ want?"

"I would want revenge," Noelle admits. "Is that what you did, Aubrey? Did you seek revenge?"

"Yes." There's no point denying it – not when she'll reveal everything if I don't. "I fought. I joined the first rebel troop I could find, and I fought like hell. Not because I thought we would win, but because I was angry. I wanted revenge. And there was a part of me that didn't care whether I lived or died. Maybe even a part that would have preferred death. That only wanted to see my family again – no matter the cost."

"But now?"

I shake my head. "No. I'm not angry anymore." A lie, of course, but I do my best to sell it. "I've made my peace with what happened. There was a war. We lost. You won. And it's time for us all to move past that. And if taking part in these Games is what it takes to help us – _all_ of us – move on, then that's what I'll do. I'll fight – not for revenge, but for my life. And that makes me no different than anyone else in the arena."

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

Not bad, as recoveries go. From the sound of the applause the audience gives Aubrey, she's managed to convince them that she's not going to start some sort of rebellion in the arena. But while she may not be the threat that Memphis and Simon and Silver are, I'll definitely be keeping a closer eye on her now, despite her lower training score. She might be capable of more than she's let on.

For now, though, I just have to get through my interview. District Twelve goes last. Of course. And since ladies apparently go first here, too, I'm dead last. Great. Just great.

At least they're not likely to bring up what _I_ did during the rebellion. They're after soldiers, not graffiti artists. Then again, they went after Silver – and she's definitely no soldier. So maybe…

 _Stop it. You're safe._ Safe. As if any of us are really safe. Even if the Capitol hasn't marked me as a rebel, that won't be any sort of guarantee once I'm in the arena tomorrow. Rebels aren't the only ones who are going to die in the Games. They want to kill us all – all but one. And if I want to be that one, I have to play it smart now.

The tributes after Aubrey, too, seem to be playing it smart. Colt says little about what happened during the war, and Noelle doesn't press. Felicity is just tired of violence and killing – on both sides – which is a safe card to play but doesn't exactly bode well for her chances in a fight to the death. Aldous apparently spent most of the war stitching up wounded soldiers on both sides after his career as a message runner for the rebels didn't work out the way he'd planned. And Tullia – doesn't seem like she did anything particularly special.

Most of us didn't, I suppose. Individually, we aren't much of a threat. It's only when we work together that the Capitol really considers us dangerous. And maybe that's the point of these Games, in the end. It isn't enough to simply kill us. By forcing us to kill _each other,_ they rob us of the unity and cooperation that was our greatest strength during the rebellion. By pitting us against each other, they're creating a divide – a divide we'll have to work hard to overcome if we ever want to challenge them again.

If. If we want to challenge them again. Immediately after the rebellion, I would have said yes – yes, of course the rebellion will start again. It's just a matter of when. The districts just needed time to regroup, to build our forces, to strengthen our resolve. But now…

Now I can't think about that. Can't worry about that. I have to get through _this_. And if I say anything of that sort, I'm as good as dead. Any of us are – rebel connections or no.

So I put on a smile as Tullia leaves the stage, then head over to take her place, trying not to cringe as I take a seat beside Noelle. She has to be getting tired of this. Of looking at each of us, smiling at each of us, pretending each of us has a chance. Pretending tributes like Tullia have a chance against seasoned soldiers. Pretending it's simply a matter of chance – of the _odds_ everyone is bubbling about – rather than skill and strategy.

"Welcome, Elijah!" Noelle beams. "Sorry for making you wait so long, but, well, someone has to go last, I suppose."

I shrug. "I figured you just wanted to end on a bang – or at least on a good note."

"That's the spirit," Noelle grins, leaning back in her chair. "You don't seem too worried about tomorrow."

I lean back a little, trying to look as comfortable as possible. "No point in worrying now, I suppose. Whatever's going to happen tomorrow will happen tomorrow – there's nothing I can do right now to change that. And I figure I've got a pretty good shot at winning this thing, if those numbers we got during training mean anything."

"Well, they certainly mean _something_ ," Noelle agrees. "And a nine – that's one of the highest scores. You did better than—"

"Better than anyone except two trained soldiers," I finish. "Not bad, if you ask me."

"Not bad at all. But that idea of being in an arena with trained soldiers – does that worry you?"

"Not at all. The way I figure it, the rebels and the loyalists will go at each other, and the rest of us only really have to worry about whoever's left."

"So you figure the two groups will attack each other immediately?"

"Well, I'm no strategist, but it seems like the best option. It's a fight that's going to happen eventually. Might as well get it over with." I shrug. "And I figure it's what the audience will want to see." I turn to the crowd. "Right? Isn't that what you want? Rebels versus the Capitol – one more time? What do you think?" The crowd roars, and I turn back to Noelle, grinning. "See? Now they have to. Everyone will be so disappointed if they don't."

That's what I'm hoping for, at least. What most of the tributes are hoping for, no doubt. I don't stand a chance against someone like Simon or Memphis or Gardenia. But if they kill each other off quickly, then the rest of us have a chance. If they _don't_ go after each other, they'll be labeled as cowards and will quickly lose whatever support they have in the Capitol.

It's a no-win scenario for them, but I can't worry about that. I don't have time to feel sorry for them. They're competition. And they have to die. They all have to die. And it'll start tomorrow.

* * *

 **Holy crap, we're so close to the Games! We can almost taste it.**

 **Three chapters left: a chapter for after the interviews, a chapter for the morning of the Games, and a launch chapter. These chapters will be shorter and will basically just be a glimpse of the thoughts of the tributes and their loved ones just before the Games. Therefore, you can probably expect them to come a bit quicker.**

 **Since we're almost to the Games, we're going to be taking down the bloodbath poll soon, but we're going to leave it up for _one_ more chapter to give you a little extra time to vote. Why? Because we've only had four people vote so far, and we _know_ from reviews that there are definitely more than four people reading. So head over and vote. It doesn't take long, and it really helps.**

 **After that, we're going to put up a sponsor poll. Thanks to _Elim9_ and _MornieGalad Baggins_ for the idea - the three tributes with the highest number of votes at the end of the sponsor poll will get some sort of sponsor gift in the arena. (As long as they're alive after the bloodbath.) This will be up _next chapter_ after the bloodbath poll is taken down. Please don't get the two mixed up. ;)**


	19. Madmen

**Madmen**

" _The only people who aren't afraid of failure are madmen."_

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

Maverick hurries over to join me almost as soon as the interviews are over. He's finally smiling a little. Good. He certainly earned it. Maybe his interview wasn't the most memorable of the night, but after all the practice we put into it, I'm pretty happy with how it went. He didn't end up repeating himself too often. His sentences made sense – well, for the most part, anyway. And he didn't run off the stage.

For a moment, it looked like he was going to – or like he wouldn't make it onstage in the first place. I have to admit, that doesn't really make sense to me. He had the guts to volunteer to be in the Hunger Games, but he still got stage fright?

Everyone's afraid of different things, I suppose. After all, he doesn't seem particularly worried about tomorrow, while I'm still completely terrified. So I guess it evens out.

It doesn't, of course. This was just an interview. A preview of what's coming. For all the fuss about it, all the lights and the outfits and the cheering, it's not going to really matter, in the end. What really matters is the Games. And they start tomorrow.

And I'm not ready.

* * *

 **Miranda Tantalum, 33  
** **Mother of Lincoln Tantalum**

Part of me wishes Lincoln hadn't mentioned the mutts during the interview. I understand what he was trying to do, of course. He was trying to give the impression that we were loyal to the Capitol during the war. And we were, I suppose. But only because we were too afraid to do otherwise. Afraid for ourselves, yes. But, more importantly, afraid for our children. For Lincoln and Madison.

That much hasn't changed, I suppose. We're still afraid – all of us. And, as much as he might have tried to hide it during his interview, it was clear that Lincoln's afraid, too. Of course he is. All of them are. They're just children. They're all children – even the ones who are pretending not to be. The ones who are pretending to be strong. Pretending to be soldiers. Pretending to be killers.

But none of them are killers. Not yet. But they will be. Tomorrow morning, the killing will begin. And if Lincoln is going to come home, it's going to be with blood on his hands. If he's going to make it out of that arena alive, he's going to have to kill. And that thought scares me almost as much as the thought of him dying.

I'm not ready for either.

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

Not a bad bit of storytelling, if I do say so myself. Most of them didn't buy it, of course – not really. Phoenix, certainly, didn't believe a word of it. She's still laughing about it as Sienna and I make our way back to our room.

And maybe that's the point. Did I really think my little stunt was going to save my life? Was I really foolish enough to believe that, just because I said so, some kind Capitolite woman was going to swoop in, pretend to be my real mother, and demand that I be exempt from the Games? No. Of course not. I'm going into the arena tomorrow, and, more likely than not, my little lie won't have any effect on what happens in there.

But if I'm going to be fighting to the death tomorrow, then I might as well have fun tonight. And telling stories is my idea of fun. Was it a lie? Yes. But a harmless one. Who's it going to hurt? Me, if anyone. If anyone is silly enough to believe it and cruel enough to target a thirteen year old kid just because he claims he's from the Capitol.

I guess … well, I guess I'm counting on no one being that stupid. Or that cruel. Maybe I'm right. Maybe not. But as Sienna ruffles my hair, giggling along with Phoenix over the ridiculousness of my blatant lies, I already know it was worth it. Making someone laugh on the day before any of us might die – that's worth whatever might be coming my way because of it.

Whatever the consequences, I'm ready.

* * *

 **Celia Eldamar, 35  
** **Mother of Peter Eldamar**

Peter's never really been one to think about the consequences. That was part of what helped keep us alive during the war, but it was also what almost got us killed on several occasions. Peter's only thought is getting through the moment. Getting through one more lie. He never really stops to think about what that lie might mean later on.

If he's lucky, it won't mean anything. But it's already meant plenty here. I've had three neighbors drop by the house already to ask if it's true. And what am I supposed to tell them? If I tell the truth and admit that Peter was lying – and word gets back to the Capitol – then everyone knows that the whole thing was a lie, and there might be consequences for him.

But if I lie – if I tell them his story was true – then what does he have to come back home to? A bunch of friends and neighbors who suddenly think he's a Capitolite. And that's _if_ he gets to come back home. If he keeps repeating the same story, will some Capitolite woman eventually decide to take advantage of the situation and claim him as her own?

If he keeps repeating the same story. He won't, though. He never does. No matter what lie he's telling, it never seems to be the same one. So that's one thing I don't have to worry about, I suppose. My son is about to be fighting for his life, but at least I don't have to worry that he's going to be abducted by some Capitolite. Not much comfort, now that I think about it.

Damn, I'm not ready for this.

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

Vance is eyeing me curiously as the pair of us head for our rooms after the interviews. "What she said about your sister … was that true? Did she attack a Peacekeeper?"

I hesitate a moment before answering. I could lie. Claim that Noelle made up the whole thing in order to create drama. But what would be the point? And, if Noelle was telling the truth, his own mother did something far more dangerous. "It's true," I confirm. "But it wasn't … well, it wasn't like she just attacked him for no reason. He was flirting with her, making advances. He…" I shake my head. "Let's just say I don't blame her." When Vance nods, I return the question. "What about your mother?"

Vance shakes his head. "No. No, my mother wasn't a traitor, but … well, the whole district thinks she is. And I don't have any proof. Neither do they, of course, but it was their word against hers, and the Peacekeepers never gave her a chance to explain. They just…" He trails off. "Well, I guess what Noelle said about redeeming our families makes a lot of sense."

"I guess it does," I agree. But I know better. If his mother really was a traitor, people will never forget that – no matter what he does in the Games. And if she wasn't, he has nothing to redeem himself for. Nothing to apologize for. None of us do. The only ones who have something to be sorry for are the ones responsible for these Games.

But I know better than to say so. I can't worry about any of that right now. I don't have time to feel sorry for myself – or for Vance.

We have to be ready for tomorrow.

* * *

 **Isadore Ellison, 20  
** **Sister of Carina Ellison**

I wasn't sure she would remember me. It's been so long since she visited. Or maybe it hasn't. I don't always remember. Don't always recognize her. Maybe she was here yesterday. I would never know the difference.

No. No, not yesterday. Because yesterday she was in the Capitol. She's been there for days. So she couldn't have been here. Could she?

But she remembered me. She talked about me, during her interview. I wonder if she knows how much that means to me. Maybe. I wish I could tell her. But, even if she was here, I'm not sure I could find the words. I never seem to be able to find the right words to tell people … well, anything, really.

It's been getting harder. Maybe it's true what they say – that if you live with people long enough, you become more like them. If you live in a place where people are crazy, maybe it starts to rub off on you. Or maybe I was always like this. Maybe this is just who I am. Maybe it always was.

And maybe I'm ready to accept that.

* * *

 **Simon Galley, 18  
** **District Seven**

"You should get some sleep, if you can," Tyrone suggests once we reach our room. Even he seems at something of a loss for what else to say. _If you can_. As if any of us will really be able to sleep. As if Silver or I could actually sleep after what we just saw.

But what else is there to say? There's nothing any of us can do about what's happening back in District Seven. Nothing except be as rested as we can for the Games tomorrow, and see to it that our friends are avenged.

Avenged. It sounds so silly now. So childish. The dream of a wide-eyed young soldier during the rebellion. Because even if I win, even if I were to kill every other tribute in the arena and somehow, against all odds, against the very wishes of the Capitol itself … even then, that wouldn't be revenge. Not against the people that really count.

And the people who did this to my friends, to Silver's family … they're beyond our reach. Even Tyrone wasn't solely responsible for their deaths. He's guilty, of course, but he was following orders. Orders from the Capitol. They're the real enemy. The only enemy.

And tomorrow, I have to be ready to face them.

* * *

 **Lauren Alder, 17  
** **Friend of Simon Galley**

I thought it would be over by now. I never thought – never would have guessed – that I would be one of the last to die. But I'm still here. Me and Lyre and two of the others – the girl's family. We're the only ones left.

But not the only ones here. After the cameras left, they took down Ren's body. They usually like to leave bodies on the crosses longer. Leave them to rot as a reminder. A warning. But they couldn't this time. They needed the space. They didn't even bother to make a new crossbeam. They simply took the beam down, removed Ren's body, and nailed the girl in his place. I don't even know who she is. What she did. But I can still hear the sound of the hammer as it came down. I can still hear her screams.

The screaming stops, after a while. You run out of strength. Out of breath. After a while, there's only pain. Pain in your chest as you struggle for one more breath. Then another. Pain in your arms and legs as your limbs tire of supporting your weight. Pain in your hands and feet as the nails dig into your skin, as your open wounds start to become infected, as maggots crawl in and make their home, as birds come to peck at the parts that have started to rot.

I never imagined this sort of pain. I had my share of injuries during the war, but never like this. During the war, there was always something to do. Even if you were injured, you kept going. Now, there's nothing. Nothing except the pain, stretching on forever.

I never thought I'd say it … but I'm ready to die.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

As I step into the elevator alongside Horario, I consider asking Aldous to join me for a few drinks or maybe a smoke before we head to our rooms. He certainly looks like he could use one. He's doing his best to smile, but he's leaning heavily on Felicity as he staggers into the elevator, exhausted from a day of being on his feet.

So he probably needs sleep more than he needs a drink. But that's no reason that I can't have a little fun. He manages a smile as the elevator stops at the sixth floor. "I'll see you tomorrow," he offers, nodding in my direction.

I smile back. "Count on it." Horario and I make our way out of the elevator and towards our rooms. "I don't suppose you want a drink or two?" I ask hopefully, but Horario shakes his head.

Maia, on the other hand, is more than happy to take me up on my offer. We drink well into the night, completely losing track of the time. And why not? It's not as if I would be able to sleep, anyway. I'm much too nervous – and, if I'm being honest, much too frightened – to sleep. The fear is finally starting to settle in, but, slowly, I drown it away, until I finally feel ready.

Ready for whatever tomorrow may bring.

* * *

 **Iynx Paean, 47  
** **Mother of Sylvana Paean**

She's probably drunk right now. If I'm being honest, part of me wishes I was, too. But, somehow, for the first time in years, I can't. I can't do that to her. If tomorrow is going to be the last time I see my daughter – even if it is on a screen – then I want to be sober. I want to remember every moment.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself. That any memory I have of her is a good thing. But if tomorrow is her last day – if my little girl dies tomorrow – will that really be a moment I want to remember? Or will I spent the rest of my life wishing I had been drunk?

No. No, I'm not going to have to worry about that. I have to stop thinking like that. She's not going to die. She's going to win. She's going to come home. I have to keep believing that, because if I stop – if I start to believe that I'm going to lose her – I don't know if I would be able to handle it.

But, at the same time, there's a part of me that knows I could. During the war, we both saw so many families lose their loved ones. Parents. Children. Brothers and sisters. Some of them let their loss overwhelm them – turned to drugs, to drink, or even took their own lives in desperation to reunite with their loved ones. But most of them found a way to move past their pain. If Paean doesn't come home, I think – I hope – that I would be one of them. That I would be able to move on.

But I'm not ready to accept that just yet.

* * *

 **Felicity DeBrier, 14  
** **District Eleven**

The elevator gives a soft ding as it finally reaches the eleventh floor. Aldous and I slowly make our way out of the elevator. Once we make it through the door, however, Aldous immediately collapses onto the couch, grimacing in pain. I take a seat beside him, holding his good hand gently. He squeezes back – hard. "Thank you."

"For what?" I didn't do anything. Not that I know of.

Aldous chuckles a little. "For helping me. How many other tributes do you see letting their district partner lean on them – quite literally – for support? You could be in your room sleeping right now, but you stayed to help me. No matter what happens in the arena, I don't want you to forget that – that you helped. That you were kind enough to help me without … without even thinking about it."

 _Kind._ There's that word again. That word that's going to be so deadly once we're in the arena. But for now … well, it can't hurt. Not yet. I lean back beside Aldous on the couch. "You're welcome, I guess."

Aldous smiles and lets go of my hand long enough to ruffle my hair gently, just like my father does. I can feel tears coming to my eyes. My father. My mother. Am I ever going to see them again? Will I see Aldous again once we're in the Games? I inch a little closer to him, and, for a while, we simply sit here, waiting. Waiting for what we know is coming in the morning.

I'm not ready for this moment to end.

* * *

 **Angelene DeBrier, 37  
** **Mother of Felicity DeBrier**

None of us are going to be able to sleep tonight – I can tell that much already. Aster, Amelia, Francis, and Maurice are huddled together on the floor. Aster, the oldest, is crying. Maurice, only three years old, doesn't fully understand what's going on. But even he can tell that it involves his older sister … and that it's not going to end well.

I had thought, until tonight, that I had made my peace with that. What chance does Felicity really have, after all, against so many older, stronger tributes? But how can anyone really make peace with that? How could any mother simply accept the idea that her child is going to die? No. I can't. No one could. So I have to hope – against all hope – that she'll find a way to survive. To come home.

Home. It was never much of a home, maybe, but it's ours. During the war, it was one of the only places any of us felt safe – even if that safety was an illusion. And it was. At any point, the Capitol's bombs could have blown our little house to smithereens. There was no such thing as 'safe.' There still isn't.

So maybe it's not safe. But it's ours. And it's the only thing we have left. That, and each other. Because what's important about our home isn't the four flimsy walls and the leaking roof. What's important is the people inside it. The seven of us – Anders and myself, and our five children. The seven of us, together, under our little roof.

I'm not ready for that seven to become six.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

Athena keeps trying to tell us we should get some sleep. And she's probably right. If there's one thing that I learned during the war, it's the importance of being alert. And it's hard to be alert when you're struggling to keep your eyes open.

But I also learned just how hard it is to sleep when you could be killed at any moment. So I don't have any delusions about being able to sleep _well_ tonight. But there's no harm in trying, I suppose. I turn to Aubrey, who's been silent since the interviews, ready to suggest that maybe it's time to head to bed.

But it's Aubrey who speaks first. "I'm such an idiot," she says softly. "I really thought … I was really stupid enough to believe that they didn't know. Or that they were going to ignore what I'd done during the war."

I shake my head. "What you said onstage tonight – that was brave. Really brave. A lot braver than I've ever been."

Aubrey smiles a little. "In a way, it's … well, it's actually a bit of a relief. I don't have to hide anymore. I don't have to pretend to be … well, incompetent. Once the Games start tomorrow, I can show them exactly what I'm capable of."

What she's capable of. Killing. She's capable of killing. She fought in the war. How many people has she killed? One? A dozen? More? Not for the first time, I find myself wondering exactly what my district partner, my ally, my friend, is really capable of.

And I'm not sure I'm ready to find out.

* * *

 **Dixie Gibson, 52  
** **Aunt of Colt Hawkins**

Well, Colt's certainly gone and gotten himself in a pickle, that's for sure. I was hoping he'd have the sense to stay away from anyone who fought in the war – on either side. From what I hear tell, the rebels were no better than the Capitol soldiers near the end. Both sides were desperate. Both did terrible things.

But Colt's going to have to do terrible things, too, if he's going to make it out of the Games alive. So maybe it's better that he's got a district partner who might force him to snap out of his shell. Maybe this Aubrey girl is exactly what he's needed.

Or maybe not. It's not like he hasn't had anyone trying to snap him out of it. We've all been trying – trying our best to help each other, to pull through our problems and get back to our lives. But Colt … even if he hadn't been reaped for these awful Games, I don't know if he would ever have been able to just go back to a normal life.

At this point, a normal life is out of the question. But I'd settle for a life. Hell, any sort of life is better than being dead – and that's what he'll be soon if he doesn't start to get his act together. Maybe it sounds harsh, but we've tried plenty of love and flowers and rainbows. Maybe these Games are, in some strange way, exactly what he needs.

I just hope he's ready for them.

* * *

 **Crescent Nerine, 17  
** **District Five**

No one's going to be able to sleep well tonight. Not me. Not Icho. And not any of the other tributes – not the ones who have any sense, at least. Anyone who has any real idea of what's about to happen in the morning will be too scared to sleep – or, at least, too scared to sleep well.

Isaac keeps telling us we should go to bed. But what's the point? Either Icho and I stay awake out here, together, or we each stay awake in our own rooms, anyway. Normally, I'd be perfectly content to be alone, to wait out the hours by myself. But I've grown to enjoy Icho's company, and since one of us is going to die soon … well, we might as well enjoy whatever time we have.

 _One of us_. It's strange how quickly the words came. One of us is going to die soon. Well, maybe not _soon_. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day. But eventually. No one's really been clear on how long they expect these Games to last. Maybe they don't really know, either. But, eventually, sooner or later, at least one of us is going to die.

But not both of us. And not me. I have to keep believing that. I don't mind admitting that I've enjoyed the time I've spent with Icho – certainly more than I expected to enjoy preparing for a fight to the death – but that doesn't mean I'm going to sacrifice myself for him. If it comes down to my life or his, I'll choose mine. I just hope I don't have to make that choice tomorrow.

I'm not sure if I'd be ready to do that.

* * *

 **Liana Nerine, 48  
** **Mother of Crescent Nerine**

She barely talked about us at all during the interviews. I try to ignore the thought as we all head to our rooms, but it keeps gnawing at me. Crescent could be dead soon. These interviews could be the last time we see her. And yet, it somehow feels like she's already gone – like a part of her left a long time ago.

A long time ago. If I'm being honest, I can pinpoint the exact moment – the moment she discovered we had adopted her. Maybe we should have told her from the start. But how do you tell a child that the woman who gave birth to her simply left her at the orphanage, not caring whether she lived or died? We thought we were sparing her pain by not telling her. We thought we were being kind.

But she never saw it that way, and she hasn't looked at us the same way since. We lost her at the reaping, but the truth was that we'd already lost her. She was already gone. All the reaping did was take away any chance of ever fixing that.

No. Not completely. She's not dead. Maybe if she comes back … maybe then. Maybe she'll realize that we only did what we did out of love. Maybe. Maybe…

Or maybe I'm simply not ready to admit that she's gone forever.

* * *

 **Sorry about the delay. It took us a little while to work out the exact format we wanted to use for these, but we're pretty happy with how this turned out. Two more chapters before the Games!**

 **On a more frustrating note, it's come to our attention that several of the tributes in our story have been recycled elsewhere. Whether they were submitted here first or submitted to other stories first, we don't really care. Using the same tribute over again is not only lazy - it's rude. It's disrespectful to us as writers, but also, more importantly, to your fellow submitters who took the time to create someone original specifically for these Games.**

 **There is _no_ good reason or excuse for this. ****However, we didn't specifically say in the submission rules that tributes _couldn't_ be recycled - largely because we were new to the SYOT scene and didn't realize it was an issue. And, honestly, it should really go without saying. But because of that, we won't kill off recycled tributes any sooner than we were planning to, anyway ... as long as you come clean now. **

**So if you've reused the tribute you gave us, let us know, and, as a reward for your honesty, you get a free pass - this time. If we don't hear from you, any tributes we recognize as recycled will meet a gruesome death as soon as we find out about them. So you could take the chance and hope that we don't find out ... or you could just own up to it.**

 **If you didn't give us someone recycled ... thank you. That's all.**


	20. Today

**Today**

" _Today is not the day I die."_

* * *

 **Horario Garcia, 15  
** **District Six**

I don't remember falling asleep. To be honest, I didn't think I was going to be able to. Who would be able to sleep the night before … well, before this? But I must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing I hear is Maia, bubbly as ever, calling me for breakfast.

Breakfast. For a moment more, I lie on my back in bed, unable to move. Wishing I could just stay here. Wishing I wasn't hear at all. Wishing this bed was actually my own bed back in District Six, that I could wake up and this would all be a dream – a nightmare, really.

But this is real. Slowly, I drag myself from my bed and dress in one of the training outfits the Capitol provided. Most likely, it doesn't matter what I wear now. Maia said they would give us different outfits shortly before the Games, anyway. So I _could_ just stay in my pajamas, I suppose. But there's something that feels good about dressing. It's something normal in a situation where everything else is … well, not.

Paean, on the other hand, is still in her nightgown when I join her at the table. Did she even go to bed last night? How late did she and Maia stay up? It's not really any of my business, though – or my problem. And I can't exactly blame her for not being able to sleep – or maybe not wanting to.

Maybe she's finally started to realize that either of us – or both of us – could die today.

* * *

 **Hermia Garcia, 35  
** **Mother of Horario Garcia**

I didn't sleep at all last night. I don't think any of us did. I tried to, but, every time I closed my eyes, images flooded through my mind. I kept picturing Horario in the Games. Sometimes, he was running – sometimes fighting. Sometimes he had killed someone else, and sometimes…

Sometimes he was the one being killed. The thought sickens me, but, in a few short hours, it could happen. He could be dead.

The three of us – my mother, my husband Turbo, and I – gather around the table for breakfast, but none of us can manage to eat more than a few bites. No one says anything. Maybe no one wants to. Maybe we all realize that, as soon as someone says something, as soon as we acknowledge what's about to happen, then we can't ignore it any more.

But we won't have to wait long for that decision to be made for us. The Games begin in a few hours. I try to take another bite of bread, silently wondering where Horario is. What's he doing? Is he as afraid as we are? I wish I could hold him – just one last time.

I wish I could tell him he's not going to die today.

* * *

 **Bliss Loverly, 16  
** **District Four**

Memphis isn't at the breakfast table. Maybe I should have expected that. Chances are, they're trying to keep us as far away from each other as possible. Still, it's oddly – even unnervingly – quiet as I sit down to eat, trying not to think about the possibility that this might be my last meal.

I shouldn't be thinking like that. I should be focusing on how I'm going to survive. I should be getting ready to fight. But, now that the Games are only a few hours away, the truth is that I'm afraid. More than afraid. I'm absolutely terrified.

As soon as I finish my breakfast, I head for the door, hoping to be able to find Gardenia and talk to her – just one last time before the Games. We have our plan, of course. There's not really anything more to discuss. I just want _someone_ to talk to.

But the door won't budge. Maybe they don't want any of us talking to each other before the Games. Not sure why that would be, really. What would we say to each other now that we couldn't have said to each other last night? _Good luck_ , I guess. We could say good luck.

 _Good luck. Try not to die today._

* * *

 **Drake Loverly, 24  
** **Brother of Bliss Loverly**

Breakfast is a bit quieter than usual today. Maybe that's only to be expected, but, to be honest, it's a bit unnerving. Sure, talking isn't going to make things any better, any easier. But neither is _not_ talking. Words aren't going to help Bliss now, but neither is silence. Nothing is going to help her.

Nothing we can do anymore, at least. We've already done the best thing we could do to help her, without even realizing we were doing it. Because of what our family did during the war, she could sit on that stage last night and assure the Capitol audience that she was a loyal citizen, and certainly not a rebel or even a rebel sympathizer.

And that, in the end, is probably be worth more than anything else we could do for her. The tributes are the ones in the arena, yes, but it's the Capitol that's truly in control of the Games. There's no doubt in my mind that the tributes who oppose the Capitol – whether openly or not – won't be allowed to leave the arena alive. They need a Victor, and they need that Victor to be loyal.

And, if that's what they're looking for, they won't find a better candidate than my sister. Well, maybe the girl from Two, but she's the obvious choice. Bliss is the one the audience will flock to, once she proves what she can do. What I _hope_ she can do. I shake my head as I finish my breakfast. Right now, there's only one thing I want her to do – or, rather, something I _don't_ want her to do.

I don't want her to die today.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

Even Peter is strangely quiet as the two of us sit down for breakfast alongside Phoenix. "I guess this is it," he finally says, softly, after finally finishing his plate. "How long do we have?"

"Not long," Phoenix answers, oddly subdued. All the excitement from last night, all the laughter about Peter's ridiculous tale, all of the almost childish glee she's expressed over being part of something so momentous – it's all gone. This is real. Soon, the Games will begin. The children will start dying. And there's nothing she can do to stop us from being among the first to fall.

I finish my breakfast in silence. Maybe there's nothing she can do, but Peter and I – we can do our best to stay alive. "I'd get away from the other tributes as soon as you can," Phoenix suggests, apparently desperate to say something helpful. "Stay together, and stay away from any fight you don't think you can win."

I nod. She's not saying anything that I hadn't thought of already, but it's nice of her to try. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of what might be tears in her eyes. Maybe she really _does_ want us to survive.

Maybe she doesn't want us to die today.

* * *

 **Asher Poplar, 14  
** **Brother of Sienna Poplar**

Kauri and Holli are silent as the three of huddle together, watching the screen. Waiting for some sign that the Games are ready to begin. No one seems to know exactly when they will start. And, in the Capitol, maybe that's part of the fun. The anticipation. The excitement. Here, though, it's practically unbearable – not knowing. Not knowing when the fighting will began. Not knowing when our sister could die.

No one has said that, of course, but we all know it. Kauri and Holli are twelve and ten – old enough to understand. Old enough to be terrified of the thought that our older sister might not be coming home. We lost our parents during the war – along with our older brothers Flynn and Linden. If we lose Sienna, too…

I clench my teeth tightly, holding my sisters close. We have to keep hoping, of course, that she'll make it. But if she doesn't – if she dies, too – then it's up to me to take care of them. To be the grown-up. When our parents died, Sienna wasn't much older than I am now, and she was forced to take on that burden. If it's my turn … well, I'll do my best to make her proud.

Kauri and Holli snuggle a little closer, and I blink the tears away from my eyes. I don't want to be the grown-up. Not yet. I'm not ready. I just want my sister to come home. I want everything the way it was.

I don't want to lose another sibling today.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

Clarisse barely eats any of her breakfast. I shake my head, gobbling down as much food as I possibly can. There's no telling when our next meal might be. No way of knowing what sort of food might be in the arena. So we might as well eat as much as we can now.

Gloria is grinning broadly as the three of us eat. Just as we finish our plates, however, some sort of bell sounds. An alarm, maybe. I jump to my feet, but Gloria simply giggles. "Nothing to worry about, dear. That sound just means it's time to escort you to the hovercrafts. It's time to go."

 _It's time to go._ I nod, still a bit jittery. _Nothing to worry about, dear._ Nothing except the fact that twenty-three other tributes are going to be trying to kill me. Nothing except the fact that, soon, most of us will be dead. Other than that, nothing.

I swallow the last of my food and glance at Clarisse, who's shaking as we follow Gloria to the door. I don't know what makes me do it, but, hesitantly, I hold out my hand. Clarisse looks down, her eyebrow raised. I take a deep breath. _Find the right words._ "Good luck," I offer as she shakes my hand.

I hope she doesn't die today.

* * *

 **Crystal Copland, 11  
** **District One Citizen**

He doesn't have any family – the boy from our district. I've seen him around every so often, darting through the alleyways like a stray cat, sleeping in boxes and digging through garbage like the rest of us. Before the reaping, I didn't even know his name.

But now we do. The orphans, the runaways, the street urchins. Anyone who came out of the war a bit battered and broken, looking for a way to rebuild our lives. He's set an example for us – all of us who were beginning to believe that it wasn't possible to do any better, to be anything more. He's become something more for us.

I huddle silently in a doorway, watching the giant screen in the district square. Most people are in their homes, huddled together with their families. But I have nowhere to go. After the war, I thought about going to the community home, but they wouldn't take me. They were too full. Too many children were left orphaned during the war, and too many of them were even younger than me. Too young to care for themselves.

Was Maverick in the same spot? Did he try to find somewhere to take him in, only to be turned away? I pull my ragged blanket a little tighter around my shoulders. If someone like _him_ can become a tribute, then why not me? Why not any of us? He's had a better life for the last few days than most of us ever will. But is it still worth it, if that life is shorter? Does he really have a chance?

Is it really worth volunteering, if he dies today?

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

Titus returns as the bell rings, with Gardenia's ally, Bliss, alongside. I nod as the two greet each other and Titus leads us out of the room. Maybe that makes sense. Bliss doesn't exactly have an escort, after all. But what about her district partner? Where is he?

 _Not my problem_ , I remind myself as I follow the three of them. I don't have to worry about him. Or them. Or anyone but myself. But worrying about myself is going to be quite enough. I got more sleep than I expected to last night, and I ate as large a breakfast as my stomach could hold this morning, but I still don't feel ready.

Maybe I never will. Maybe there's something wrong with the people who _do_. How can you ever really be prepared for something like this? How can you really be ready to fight for your life? To kill other teenagers? How could anyone be ready for that?

But 'ready' is exactly what Gardenia and Bliss seem to be – and even a little anxious. And maybe that makes sense. Maybe it's better that we're finally here, rather than spending another day or two waiting, training, hoping that our efforts will have some effect on how well we do in the Games. But will they? Will the last few days of training really mean anything in the arena?

Will they be enough to keep me alive today?

* * *

 **Jenner de Monte, 16  
** **Friend of Vance Feldspar**

I just hope he realizes what he has to do. Vance is a good friend, but he's always been something of a follower, always looked to the rest of us to take the lead. And maybe that will keep him alive for a little while in the Games. During the interviews, it sounded like he'd found someone to work with. But eventually…

Eventually, he'll have to think for himself. Eventually, relying on his friends to keep him alive isn't going to be enough. I hope he has it in him – I really do – but I'm not sure he's going to realize it in time.

That's a terrible thing to say about a friend, of course. I'm supposed to have faith in him, no matter what. I'm supposed to be standing here, waiting, when he comes home at the end of the Games. That's what I'm supposed to believe.

And I want to. I want to believe that he's going to pull it off – somehow. That maybe, just maybe, he's braver than any of us think. Stronger than any of us know. But I can't help thinking of his district partner – the girl who is actually a soldier, who's actually been trained. The girl who probably won't think twice about taking a life. About taking _his_ life. How is he supposed to kill people like that?

How is he going to survive today?

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

A moment after the bell sounds, the door opens, and General Tyrone returns, with Memphis at his side. That makes sense, I suppose. He doesn't exactly have an escort of his own. But what about his district partner? Where is she? Then again, they probably want to keep the two of them as far away from each other as possible. Until the Games. Until the Capitol actually _wants_ them to kill each other.

Actually wants _us_ to kill each other. Because if Bliss and Memphis are expected to fight, then Simon and I are expected to fight alongside Memphis, and Gardenia alongside Bliss. Everyone else seems to have accepted that. So why am I afraid?

I know why, of course. Simon and Memphis – they're trained soldiers. Out of the three of us, the others will likely see me as the easiest target. The easiest person to pick off first before dealing with the real threats. Or maybe the person they can leave for last because they don't have to worry about me.

I keep trying to tell myself that's an advantage. That I'm the one they won't see coming. The one they won't expect to be able to fight. But the truth is that I'm just as unprepared, just as incompetent, as they might assume. I've managed to learn a bit over the last few days, but not enough. Not enough to really be able to compete with trained soldiers.

But maybe enough to help me survive today.

* * *

 **Rowan Ember, 16  
** **Friend of Silver Grayne**

Even the streets are silent today as I make my way to the square. Not because I want to, but because I promised. No one will know, of course, if I break my promise – I didn't make it to anyone but myself. But I'll know. And, somehow, it feels like Silver would know. And she doesn't deserve any more disappointment.

She volunteered for them, after all – thinking that, if she won the Games, the Capitol would have to spare them. She was wrong, but that doesn't erase the courage it took to volunteer that day. I'm shaking as I approach one of the crosses, and I force myself to look up into her father's eyes and deliver my message. "The Games are today."

He nods weakly. It's all he can do. And it's all I can do to keep from crying as I turn and run back to my house as fast as I can. I can't afford to do anything else. Anyone who tries to help those condemned to death … let's just say it doesn't end well.

The Peacekeepers know I come, of course. They know I've been telling Silver's father about all of it. About the chariot parade, about her training score, about the interviews. But that's as much as they'll let me do – bring him news. I just hope that I can bring him some better news later.

I hope I can tell him that his daughter survived today.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

Grant leads Tullia and me to the roof of the training center, where a pair of hovercrafts waits for us. Well, us and the other tributes, who have gathered with their escorts. Waiting. Just waiting. Finally, the doors of the hovercrafts open. "Male tributes over here!" calls one of the pilots, while the second calls, "Female tributes in this one!"

I turn to Tullia, who smiles faintly. "I guess this is it." Her voice is thin and nervous. I don't say anything back, because I'm afraid mine would be, too. I don't want her – or anyone else – to know how nervous I really am.

Because now that we're here … yes. Yes, I'm nervous. Afraid. Terrified, even. Because, as much as I've tried not to think about it, I could be dead in a few hours. And now that we're here, we can't exactly avoid thinking about it for much longer.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I hold out my hand, and, after a moment of hesitation, Tullia shakes it. Beside me, Grant scoffs, but I don't care. I don't care if he thinks Tullia doesn't have a chance. That's no reason not to be kind – even if it's only for a moment. But it can only be for that moment.

Because if I'm going to survive today, I can't afford to be kind much longer than that.

* * *

 **Lenora Tavora, 18  
** **Friend of Elijah Maleri**

I never thought waiting could be this hard. I can't help pacing as the cameras finally show a few shots of the tributes getting into a pair of hovercrafts. Hovercrafts that, very soon, will take them to the arena. To the Games.

I swallow hard, fighting back the lump in my throat. It's finally real. The arena. The Games. In a very short time, Elijah is going to be in the Games. He's going to be fighting for his life. Fighting other tributes. Other kids. And, if he's going to come home, he's going to have to kill them.

Part of me – a pretty large part, if I'm being honest – wishes it were already over, one way or another. That he was already home with us … or that he was already dead. It's this terrible in between, these long hours of not knowing whether he's going to live or die, that's truly unbearable.

I wonder if he feels the same. If he's been waiting anxiously for the Games to begin, knowing that they might very well mean his death. He's never exactly been the most patient person I've known. Why should that change now? He's probably grateful that we're finally here, for better or worse.

Soon, it'll be up to him to get through today.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

There's only silence as the hovercraft finally lifts off. No one says a word. What is there to say? I glance around at their faces – some trying to look confident, but most of them clearly afraid. Beside me, the girl from Seven – Silver – is shaking. On my other side, the girl from Nine – Sienna – is trying her best not to look at the rest of us. As if not seeing our faces will make it easier to think about what has to happen.

Easier to think about killing us. Because that's what's going to happen very, very soon. Some of us in this hovercraft will be dead by the end of the day. And some of us will have blood on our hands.

Which one will I be? I can't help wondering. I don't have any allies to worry about. None of the other tributes really have a reason to attack me. But, in the heat of the moment once the Games begin, is it really going to matter whether they have a reason or not? The fact that I haven't made any enemies – is that really going to protect me once the Games begin?

No. No, it isn't going to protect me. It isn't going to save my life. But it certainly isn't going to hurt, either. And maybe that's the best I can hope for.

Maybe it will be enough to keep me alive today.

* * *

 **Amelia Torres, 19  
** **Friend of Neblina Acosta**

 _Breathe. Just breathe._ That's what I keep telling myself as the hovercraft lifts off from the roof of the training center. Taking the tributes to the arena. Wherever that is. They haven't told us anything about where the arena is, or what it's going to be like.

Maybe that's part of the fun. The suspense. But maybe … well, maybe it doesn't really matter. Maybe it doesn't matter what's in the arena – except for the other tributes. They're the ones who are really going to determine what happens. The arena – that's just for show, to keep the audience entertained, to keep the tributes together.

That's what Neblina would say, at least. That the people are the ones who are important – and the people are the ones who are unpredictable. That the tributes are the ones who are going to change the course of the Games, who are always going to behave differently than you expect them to. That you can never really know what they're going to do. What anyone is going to do. How they're going to react when…

I shake my head. Maybe Neblina's beginning to rub off on me. I'm starting to get philosophical. But philosophical is one thing that could be very dangerous once she's in the arena. I can only hope that she'll be able to focus on what's going on, rather than thinking about everything that _could_ happen.

Because that's the only way she's going to survive today.

* * *

 **First of all, we'd like to apologize. We got so busy soapboxing at the end of last chapter that we completely forgot to post the sponsor poll we promised. The poll has now been posted, along with results of the previous one, which are now available on the blog.**

 **Just a reminder - this is a poll that _will_ have some effect on the Games. The top three tributes at the end of the poll will receive some sort of sponsor gift in the arena. So head over to my profile and support your favorites. The poll will be up until we post the bloodbath.**

 **Lastly, one of this story's submitters, Elim9, has an open SYOT ... with superpowers! So send them a tribute or two if you have time.**


	21. Now

**Now**

" _There is only one hell...the one we live in now."_

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

The girl beside me – Felicity – is shaking like a leaf as the hovercraft finally lands. One at a time, the guards escort us out of the plane. They come for me last. Of course. District Twelve always seems to be last. Hopefully that doesn't mean we'll be the last ones they let into the arena.

I hide a small chuckle at that. I don't _want_ to be in the arena, of course – no more than anyone else does. But it would be better than sitting here in this hovercraft, waiting for them to come and get me. Finally, though, they do. Only once I step outside do I realize we're in some sort of underground hangar.

Maybe that makes sense. They wouldn't want us to get a glimpse of the arena, after all. Wouldn't want us to know what it's going to be like. Maybe they figure that would give us some sort of advantage. And maybe it would, but what? I already know what I'm going to do once we're inside. I'm going to run as fast and as far away from the other tributes as I can.

It's not much of a plan, maybe, but it's the best I can do. I certainly don't want to charge into a fight with so many of the older, stronger tributes around. But if I can get away safely, if I can find somewhere in the arena where I'd have an advantage, then maybe I can lure them to me. Or maybe I can simply hide. Hide and hope they never find me.

That doesn't sound like such a bad option right now.

* * *

 **Sergei Litvina, 36  
** **Father of Tullia Litvina**

They still haven't shown Tullia. Every time they show the tributes on the screen – on the roof of the training center, getting in the hovercrafts, being led away from the hovercrafts – they focus on the others. The older, stronger, flashier ones. The ones they think have a chance of coming out alive.

After all, why focus on a little girl from District Twelve who could be dead in a few hours? A lump forms in my throat as the thought occurs to me. They haven't been focusing their cameras on Tullia because they don't think she'll last long. They don't want her taking up their precious screen time when they could focus on the soldiers, the fighters, the ones who will give them a good show.

I keep trying to tell myself that she'll prove them wrong. That she'll turn out to be as good a fighter – or, at least, as clever a fighter – as any of them. But will she really? Should I have made sure she got a little more training? My fellow soldiers and I used our home as a base of operations during the war. Surely we could have taken the time to teach her a thing or two.

But we had no reason to. No reason to believe she would have to know. By the time she was old enough to fight, we believed, the war would be over. A war we were certain we were going to win. But we lost. And now my daughter is there, in their arena, completely unskilled and unprepared.

But there's nothing I can do about that now.

* * *

 **Aldous Clement, 17  
** **District Eleven**

"Hello again, Aldous." My stylists, Antonia and Antoninus, greet me as the guards half-lead, half-drag me into the room and drop me to the floor. Antoninus helps me up. "Sorry about that," he apologizes. "I don't think they realize they're being rude. They just want things done fast."

I nod. 'Fast' has never been my strong suit – even less so now. Gently, Antonia and Antoninus help me out of my training clothes and into a simple outfit: a plain white shirt, light khaki shorts with a pocket on either side, and a pair of sandals. "Maybe the arena's a desert," Antonia suggests. "Light clothes. Sandals. Perfect for warm weather."

I smile. They're trying to be kind. Trying to be optimistic. Maybe they know enough about the districts to know that any kid from District Eleven would be grateful for warm weather in the arena. But I spent enough time as a soldier – and around soldiers – to understand the real reason for the clothing choice.

It's so they can see the blood. Darker outfits – black, dark blue, even darker greens or greys – hide blood. Which is what you want in the field. You don't want your enemies to see you bleed, and you don't want your own men to know how badly they're getting hurt. But white? Khaki? Our blood will stand out like … well, like blood. But I don't say so. They'll find out soon enough.

For now, I'll take all the kindness I can get.

* * *

 **Emory Forge, 20  
** **Friend of Aldous Clement**

I wish they would show us something. The tributes left the hovercrafts a few minutes ago, but now all we can see is Noelle's face as she gushes on about what could be waiting for the tributes in the arena. I clench my fists. I _know_ what's waiting for them in the arena. What's waiting for _Aldous_ in the arena.

Death. He knew it, of course, the moment his name was called. But he took it in stride, just like … well, just like all the other shit that's happened to him. I don't think I've ever heard him raise his voice. I've rarely heard him complain.

Sometimes I wish he would. It would certainly make me feel better about all the complaining I've done myself. He's had it worse, of course, but adjusting from life in District Two to the fields of District Eleven … well, let's just say it hasn't been easy. And it'll be even harder without him.

I shouldn't say things like that, I know. Shouldn't start talking in the past tense. Shouldn't start acting like he's already dead. But the truth is, it's almost easier to imagine that he's already dead than to think about what the other tributes could do to him once they're in the arena. Most of them seem to be good kids. Most of them, given the chance, would probably give him a quick, clean death. But some of them … well, some of them seem rather vicious.

And if that's the way they seem now, I don't want to see them after a few days in the arena.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

These certainly aren't the outfits I would have chosen. Not because I'm worried about how I look. After a few days in the arena, we'll all look a mess. Those of us who are still alive, at least. But these outfits provide absolutely no protection whatsoever. Only a thin layer of clothes shields us from whatever's going to be attacking us – the weather, the animals, even our fellow tributes.

And, in some places, we don't even have that much protection. The sleeves of the shirt are short. My shorts barely reach my knees. And sandals – don't even get me started on the practicality of sandals. I would have gone with some sort of armor, personally, or at least something a bit tougher. And definitely some sort of helmet.

But the Capitol clearly isn't concerned about practicality. If we were wearing armor, they couldn't see us bleed. If we were wearing helmets, they couldn't see our faces. I suppose I should be grateful they didn't put us in something even skimpier, but these clothes certainly weren't designed for fighting. They were designed to give the Capitol a good show. To let them see the blood.

That shouldn't bother me. After all, it's not my blood that I mean for the Capitol to see. But I'm not stupid enough to believe I'll get out of this without a scratch. Alive, yes. But completely unharmed? Well, that's not something the Capitol wants to see. Who wants to see a soldier triumph over their contenders without even breaking a sweat, without spilling a drop of their own blood? _I_ wouldn't mind coming out of this unscathed, of course, but that's not what the Capitol wants to see.

And that's probably not what they'll get now.

* * *

 **Mason Carys, 44  
** **Father of Gardenia Carys**

I'll just have to trust that she knows what she's doing. That's never been easy for me – letting go. After Elizabeth left, taking Thomas with her, Gardenia was all I had. I was hesitant to let her join up with District Two's forces, but now I'm glad I did. They never sent her into the field, and now … well, now she's as ready as anyone could be.

I just hope she's ready enough. The interviews last night were enough to tell that there are at least a few rebels in the arena. Rebel _soldiers_. Trained. Deadly. Treacherous. I'll just have to hope that she's stronger – or, at least, smarter.

I should be certain, of course. Confident that my daughter is more than a match for a few traitorous rebels. But if there's one thing that the war taught us, it was that the rebels weren't as incompetent – or as unorganized – as some of us had assumed at the start. What we thought would be a minor uprising, easily put down in the course of a few weeks – a month, at the most – dragged on for three whole years, taking its toll on both the districts and the Capitol alike.

I hope Gardenia will remember that. I hope she doesn't think these Games will be over quickly and easily. Because as much as I would like to see her win in a matter of hours, I know better. The Capitol will drag this out. Not all of the tributes will want to fight immediately. Some of them will run. Some of them will hide. Some of them will try – unsuccessfully – to prolong the inevitable.

I just hope the Capitol has some sort of reward planned for those who are willing to fight now.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

I'm honestly not sure if I'm shaking with fear or simply anticipation. Once I'm dressed, my stylists escort me to a strange, glass cylinder in the corner. "This will take you to the arena when everything's ready," one of them chirps.

 _When everything's ready._ So not yet. Not _quite_ yet, at least. But what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit here and wait? I pace back and forth in front of the glass tube. Why should I have to wait for them? Without thinking, I climb in.

I should have known better, of course, than to think anything would happen. The glass door on the tube snaps shut, but nothing else. Great. That was a _wonderful_ idea. Now I can't even pace. I'll just have to stand here, waiting, until—

"Tributes, please enter your transport tubes at this time." Okay. Not so bad, then. I was just a little early. My stylist gives me a thumbs-up as we wait. After hesitating a moment, I return the gesture. He mouths something I think might be _good luck_. Good luck. It'll take more than good luck to get me through these Games. But I don't have to worry about the whole Games right now.

Now, I just have to worry about getting through today.

* * *

 **Lance Keiper, 17  
** **Friend of Icho Thesik**

I don't know why I'm so worried. I really shouldn't be. Icho got through a war, after all. He should be able to get through this the same way: one day at a time. That's the key to getting through a war, really. You can't worry about what's going to happen at the end. You just have to try to get through one day. And then the next.

I didn't have it as bad as Icho during the war, though. My family … well, we took the Capitol's side. Not because we _like_ the Capitol, mind you. But because we knew from the start that the rebels didn't have much of a chance. And, as horrible as it sounds, we didn't want to back the losing side.

The losing side. Icho always seems to be on the losing side. His parents split, and he chose to stay with his father and help out during the war. He was sent to run messages, only to return in time to see his father killed. His mother tried to take him back, but he refused.

That last one's his fault, I suppose. And deciding to stay with his father – well, that was his decision, too, come to think of it. So maybe it's not all bad luck. Maybe it's not that he ends up on the losing side. Maybe there's a part of him that _chooses_ the losing side.

I just hope he can ignore that part now.

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

"Tributes, please enter your transport tubes at this time." The voice is sudden, startling. Transport tubes. What the hell are transport tubes? But before I can ask, one of the stylists gestures to a glass cylinder on the opposite side of the room. I'm supposed to get inside _that_?

Well, why not? It looks reasonably safe. And what am I afraid of, anyway? It's not as if they're going to leave us in there. They're just taking us to the arena. I shrug as casually as I can, make my way over to the tube, and climb inside.

It's a bit cramped inside as the glass door snaps shut. But I won't be in here for long. At least, I hope not. There's a hole in the ceiling, so I won't have to worry about air, but waiting in here … well, it's even worse than waiting in that little room.

I don't have to wait long, though, because, soon after the door closes, the tube starts to move. Up. Up. How far underground were we? Farther than I thought, I guess. It's hard to tell how fast I'm going, but it feels like I'm flying – for a second or two. The light at the top is growing brighter. Daylight. I'm almost outside.

It's starting to feel real now.

* * *

 **Zach Richardson, 17  
** **Brother of Clarisse Richardson**

The tributes are in some sort of tubes. I guess that makes sense. They wouldn't want to have a door that led into the arena or something. Bringing them up through tubes makes about as much sense as … well, about as much sense as anything else, I guess. About as much sense as anything _can_ make in a fight to the death.

A fight to the death. A part of me still can't quite believe that Clarisse actually volunteered for this. I mean, I get what she was trying to do. She was trying to be brave, like our father. She wanted to show the Capitol that they couldn't force her to be afraid of them. She wanted to take control.

But how much control does she have now? She's in a glass tube controlled completely by the Gamemakers. If they wanted to, they could kill her right now. They could drop that tube back to the bottom of the room and smash her to pieces. They could cut off the air supply. Or they could simply leave her there to starve to death.

 _Stop it._ They won't. If they did, they wouldn't have a game. But the fact remains that, right now, she's completely in their hands. This is _their_ game. In _their_ arena. Played by _their_ rules.

And right now, I'm wondering whether she should have let someone else play.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

The tube keeps moving. Up. Up. Higher and higher. Finally, the light at the top grows brighter. A few more inches, and I can see over the edge. I can see daylight. I can see sand. Sandals. Sand. I suppose that makes sense.

A little higher, and I can see the arena. Well, not the _whole_ arena. What I can see is a pile of weapons in the sand. Pretty much any weapon we could want. Swords, spears, axes, bows, and a variety of other things. I can see a sling and a hammer close to me.

Well, _close_ is relative. The weapons are maybe fifty meters from us. All of us. As I glance around, I can see that the other tributes and I form a circle – a ring – around the pile in the middle. Vance and Carina are on the complete opposite side. Of course they are. The Capitol probably made sure they didn't put groups who are working together … well, together.

But that's not entirely the case, I realize as I look around. No, some groups are together. District pairs. Colt and Aubrey. Sienna and Peter. And Neblina's next to me. Of course. We're arranged by district, going clockwise around the circle. That makes sense.

Well, about as much sense as anything makes now.

* * *

 **Kervin Ford, 42  
** **Father of Kennedy Ford**

They're arranged by district – that's one of the first things that's obvious, looking at the circle of tributes. And that makes sense, I suppose – it's certainly orderly. But it does give a bit of an advantage to anyone who happened to team up with their district partner, while Kennedy … well, his allies are on the other side of the pile.

A pile full of weapons. Weapons that, very soon, they'll be using to kill each other. My stomach churns at the thought. It all seems so real, suddenly. They're in the arena. How long before those weapons in front of them are covered in blood? How long before Kennedy has to fight?

I can't really tell much from his expression. Is he planning to fight? Is he planning to run? Even if he's planning to run, he'll probably have to make it to the other side of the clearing, because that's where his allies are. Unless he decides to simply run away – try to find them later, maybe. Maybe that would be smart. Or maybe that would be cowardly. Maybe … well, maybe there's not so much difference between them.

The other tributes are glancing around, as well – some at the pile of weapons in front of them, some behind them. They're surrounded by a wall of hedges, forming a square with the pile of weapons in the center. Four openings in the wall – like hallways – lead away from the clearing, one in each side of the square. Kennedy's pretty close to one of them … but Vance and Carina are close to the one on the complete opposite side of the clearing.

What is he supposed to do now?

* * *

 **Memphis Ash, 18  
** **District Four**

Sand. Hedges. A pile of weapons. Not so bad. Sand is something I'm very familiar with. It won't trip me up like some of the others, who might not be used to the way it sinks beneath their feet. Maybe that will give me an edge against some of them.

But not against Bliss, who's standing beside me. Not that she's a threat. In fact, she looks quite dismayed that she ended up right next to me. Not that the Gamemakers are trying to favor me or anything, of course. Quite the opposite, probably. But arrange us by district, and it makes sense that we would end up next to each other.

But it also means that her partner, Gardenia, is nearby. She's off to our right, but could probably reach us fairly quickly. But will she? Or will she try to get her hands on a weapon first. For that matter, should _I_ try to get my hands on a weapon first before going after Bliss? I have no doubt that I wouldn't need a weapon to overpower her, but by the time I'm able to kill her, Gardenia could already have a weapon.

Then again, so could _my_ allies. Simon and Silver are off to my left, not much farther away from me and Bliss than Gardenia is. I meet Simon's gaze as he's glancing around at the pile of weapons. If they would just let us out of these cylinders…

Why don't they just let us out now?

* * *

 **Hudson Gallius, 23  
** **District Four Citizen**

I'm a bit more excited than I'd like to admit. The tributes are finally in the arena. And maybe that sounds terrible. They're just children, after all. But there's a part of me that can't help being excited. Anxious to see what will happen. Are they _really_ going to fight each other? Or are they all simply going to run? I'd probably run, if I'm being honest.

I didn't fight during the war – on either side. And I'm definitely grateful that I'm already too old to be part of these Games. But watching the boy who killed our mayor go to what will almost certainly be his death … Yeah, I'm not too broken up about that. If _someone_ has to be in the Games, he's as good a choice as any. Better than most.

The girl, on the other hand, I feel sorry for. The boy knew what he was getting into, and he volunteered anyway. But she didn't even have a choice. Most of them didn't. Most of them were just unlucky. But getting unlucky is part of life.

Or part of death, I suppose. Death, for most of them. But, if you think about it, how many children died during the war? Hundreds? Thousands? What makes these twenty-four any different? What makes their lives any more precious than the ones who are already dead?

Why should we care now?

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

My hands are clenched tightly into fists as a voice echoes across the clearing. "Tributes! Listen carefully! Do _not_ step off your podiums until the gong sounds! _Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven…_ "

As the voice continues to count down, the glass slides away, leaving only the bottom of the transport tube, which I'm guessing is the podium the voice is referring to. The voice doesn't say _why_ we shouldn't step off our podiums – or what will happen if we do – but, looking around, no one seems particularly eager to find out.

Sixty seconds. Sixty seconds to get our bearings. But, no matter how hard I try to look around, my eyes are drawn back to the pile of weapons in the middle. Near my side of the pile are a sword and a spear. I could reach them. I know I could. I glance over at Colt, who doesn't seem quite as eager. There's an opening in the wall practically right behind me. Should we simply run?

He wants to. That much is clear. But I could do it. Run in, get the spear and the sword, run back. How many people on our side of the pile are actually going to rush in? I probably wouldn't even have any competition. On the other hand, running is safer. We could make it out of the clearing before anyone could reach the weapons. Or we could take a chance.

And we have to decide now.

* * *

 **Hannah Malecek, 17  
** **Friend of Aubrey Ryans**

I'm honestly not sure what she's going to do. With her low training score, I was assuming that Aubrey was trying to lie low. To hide her skills. And, if she's trying to convince the other tributes she's helpless, then she should simply run.

But that doesn't seem like much of an option anymore. Anyone who was watching her interview knows what she's capable of. We fought together in the war. We killed – both of us. I know she has it in her to fight.

But fighting children – that's different than fighting soldiers. Fighting for the Capitol's entertainment is different than fighting for a cause we believe in. If this were a war – a real war – I have no doubt that Aubrey would be the first to reach for a weapon. But will she have the same resolve when she's facing a tribute even younger than her?

I clench my fists tightly as the numbers count down. I won't have to wait long to find out. Sixty seconds – now down to forty. Forty seconds, and the killing will start. Forty seconds, and the Games will begin.

There's nothing I can do to help her now.

* * *

 **Last chance to vote in the sponsor poll on my profile. Next chapter, the Games will begin!**

 **If you want some idea of the layout of the "cornucopia," and which tributes are where, there's a little diagram up on the blog. No, there's no actual cornucopia** **– just a pile of weapons. We figured the actual physical cornucopia would be something the Gamemakers decided to add sometime in the years to come. Same thing with the backpacks and other survival supplies. Right now? Just a stack of weapons. The different colors don't really mean anything** **– just a way to identify different alliances.**

 **A map of the arena will be added to the blog next chapter, once the tributes – or, at least, those who survive the bloodbath – can see more of it beyond the clearing they're currently in.**


	22. The Great Game

**The Great Game**

" _Are you afraid? Good. You're in the Great Game now – and the Great Game is terrifying."_

* * *

 **Memphis Ash, 18  
** **District Four**

 _Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven._ The voice keeps counting. On and on. Ticking down the seconds. Seconds passing while we wait for … what? Their permission? We're here, in the arena. And we're still waiting. Waiting for the Capitol's say-so to start fighting.

Why should we? _Twenty-three. Twenty-two._ My muscles tense as I turn towards Bliss. Waiting. Obediently waiting. They're all obediently waiting.

But if there's one thing I've never been, it's obedient.

* * *

 **Bliss Loverly, 16  
** **District Four**

Everything happens in an instant. Memphis lunges towards me, but, in that second, there's an ear-splitting explosion. Something splatters against my arm. Something red and wet and warm. It takes all of my concentration not to back away, not to step off my platform as I put the pieces together. "Stay on your platforms!" a voice shouts – a voice that I realize belongs to Gardenia. A warning.

Because that's what Memphis' death is. It's a warning to all of us that the Capitol's rules aren't optional. _Fifteen._ The voice continues. Fifteen seconds. _Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve._ I glance over at Gardenia, who nods. With Memphis dead, the immediate threat is gone. The question of whether to run towards the weapon pile or fend him off without weapons is gone.

Memphis is gone.

 _Eight. Seven._ I take a few deep breaths as the voice continues to count. Across the pile of weapons, Simon and Silver exchange a glance, figuring out what to do now that Memphis is dead. Will they fight? Will they run? I'm not sure which to hope for. I'm as terrified as ever of fighting them – even with Gardenia by my side – but will we ever get a better chance than this?

 _Four. Three. Two. One._ A gong sounds, and my legs make the decision for me, propelling me forward alongside Gardenia. She reaches the weapons first, snatching up a broadsword from the edge of the pile. Most of the tributes are running one direction or the other – few of them towards the weapons. But Simon and Silver reach the pile just as we do. Simon grabs an axe and lunges.

Lunges for _me._

I should have expected that, of course. Of course they would assume I was a weaker target. I dodge as quickly as I can, reaching down for the first weapon my fingers touch as Gardenia's sword meets Simon's axe. Just as a hand closes around a dagger, however, something strikes me in the back. Pain shoots through my body as my hand reaches back, my fingers finding the weapon. A small throwing axe.

Blood. I can feel blood seeping from the wound as I sink to my knees. This isn't how it was supposed to end. It's not fair.

I don't even know who threw it…

* * *

 **Simon Galley, 18  
** **District Seven**

She'll never even know who threw the axe. There's a part of me that feels a surge of pity for the girl as she sinks to the ground, blood flowing from her back. But I can't let myself think like that. I'm a soldier. I'm a killer. And now Silver is, too.

They were so focused on me – both Bliss and Gardenia – that neither of them was watching her. It was a lucky throw, but sometimes that's all you need. Just a bit of luck.

And now I'll need some, because even though Gardenia's outnumbered now, she's having no difficulty fending off my attacks. Silver is still standing motionless by Bliss' body. What is she doing? Making sure she's dead? Or is she simply in shock?

That happens sometimes, I suppose, with your first kill – but did it have to happen _now_? I grit my teeth as I drive Gardenia backwards. Tributes race this way and that – a few grabbing weapons and then running away, but most simply running.

Cowards.

I've never been a coward. And I can't afford to start now. I strike again, as hard as I can. Gardenia dodges one blow, then blocks the next, but both of us are beginning to tire. Sweat drips from our bodies onto the sand, hot and dry beneath our sandals.

At least it's just her. Even if Silver is out of the action for a little while, even if I'm alone … so is she. Bliss was her only ally.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

Bliss was my only ally. I sidestep Simon's next blow, making sure to keep one eye on Silver, still motionless by Bliss' body. I should feel something. Grief. Sadness, at least. But right now, all I feel is panic. The moment Silver snaps out of it, I'm as good as dead – at least, as long as I stay here.

I could run, of course. But would I make it? If I turn and run, would I have time to get away? Or would Simon simply run me down? I can't afford to find out. Finally, one of my blows slips through Simon's defense, slicing his arm a little. Blood drips to the ground. But not enough. Not enough to slow him down. His axe comes swinging low, and this time, I don't have enough time to dodge as the blade swipes across my leg. I stumble backwards as blood trickles onto the sand, waiting for the next blow.

But the next blow doesn't come. Simon staggers forward a step, and then back. After a second, I can see why. Something is sticking out of his chest. Some sort of blade. He stumbles forward, and I back away as he slumps to the ground, a spear buried in his back. A hand reaches down to draw the blade out.

A hand that belongs to Vance. I can't help staring, and neither can he. For a few seconds, his eyes linger on Simon's body. I nod a little as he glances up. "Thank you."

But my words are met only by a panicked expression as he glimpses something behind me. Did Silver finally decide to join the fight? Instinctively, I turn, my sword slashing before I can even see which tribute is running towards me.

But it isn't Silver.

* * *

 **Felicity DeBrier, 14  
** **District Eleven**

I didn't want to fight. I didn't even mean to get in her way. I was just trying to reach my ally. I was just trying to reach Horario.

But I'm not going to make it. I know that as the sword swings, slashing across my chest. Pain erupts throughout my body as I crumple to the ground, gasping for breath. The girl with the sword looks surprised. Shocked, even. Maybe she thought I was someone else.

But that doesn't matter now.

There are tears in my eyes as my hands flail, trying to stop the blood. But it won't do any good. Nothing will now. The girl with the sword takes a step closer, horrified. "I'm sorry," I gasp. "I didn't mean to … I just … I was trying to get to—"

I was just trying to get to Horario.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

She was just trying to get to her ally. My stomach churns as Gardenia buries her sword in the girl's neck, putting her out of her misery as quickly as possible. But not quickly enough. Not quickly enough to erase the image from my mind. Not quickly enough to drown out her voice in my head. _I'm sorry,_ she said. As if she had anything to be sorry for. As if her death was her own fault.

But was it really Gardenia's fault? For all she knew, the tribute behind her might have been attacking. She made a split-second decision – one I know I can't fault her for. If she had known it was Felicity behind her…

Then what? Would she have done anything differently? Would she have simply let her run past? I'd like to believe that, but I'm not sure. I glance over at Carina and see that Kennedy has made it across, a club in his hand. But it could just as easily have been him lying at Gardenia's feet. If he'd been even a little bit slower…

She's watching me, I realize as I look up. Waiting to see what I'll do. There's a part of me that wants to invite her to come with us – our alliance. There are already three of us – all armed. A fourth, especially a trained soldier, would certainly make us a force to be reckoned with.

But how can any of us trust her? She just killed a child. An unarmed child who was only trying to reach her ally. Maybe it's not her fault, but that doesn't make her innocent. Doesn't make her trustworthy.

I take a deep breath as I step backwards towards Carina and Kennedy. One step. Then another. Gardenia does nothing. She's letting me go. Maybe I earned that much, at least.

 _Earned._ I killed Simon. I stabbed him through the back with my spear. But only because he was trying to kill my … what? My district partner? My friend? What does that make us?

Nothing. It means nothing, I remind myself as I turn, running towards Carina and Kennedy as fast as I can, gripping my spear as the blood continues to drip onto the sand. She doesn't – she _can't_ – mean anything more to me than another tribute. Another opponent. Eventually, she'll be my enemy. But not today.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

They're dead. They're both dead. Memphis. Simon. Their names echo in my head, their faces looming in front of my eyes as I run. I couldn't have done anything to save Memphis, but Simon … I just stood there. I did nothing. I _let_ that other boy kill him.

No. No, I let the _Capitol_ kill him. Both of them. This is the Capitol's fault. I can't start blaming the other tributes. They're victims, just as much as any of us.

Just as much as me.

I swallow back a sob as I continue to run. A victim. I never really thought about myself as a victim before. Even when I volunteered for the Games, it was my choice. What the Capitol did to my family was a result of what I had done.

But what if … what if it isn't? What if the Capitol is simply that ruthless? Maybe they would have killed my family no matter what I did. If I hadn't been caught spreading rebel propaganda, they would have simply found another reason to kill them. To punish me – all of us – for … what? Existing? Being born in District Seven? Not being born in the Capitol?

It's not fair. But maybe it's time to stop expecting the Capitol to be fair. Expecting the Games to be fair. I clutch my weapons in my hands - weapons I grabbed from the pile as I ran. A knife and a whip - that's all I have to show for my troubles. All I have to show for their deaths.

No. Not the only things I have to show for it. I still have my life. And as long as I'm alive, I can make them pay. I can find a way to make them all pay.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

In a strange way, Memphis might have saved our lives. Before he … well, went all to pieces, so to speak, I was thinking about trying to rush towards the weapons. I was thinking about fighting. I was beginning to think that maybe … well, maybe I was even _ready_ to fight.

I gasp for breath as Crescent and I finally slow down a little. I was wrong. I'm not ready. I wasn't ready for that. I'm still not ready for this.

So we ran – Crescent and I – through the nearest gap in the hedges. The hedges, it's clear now, are forming a maze of sorts, with the pile of weapons in the center, and different passageways branching out from it. The hedges are about three meters tall – too tall to see over, and not really strong enough to climb. Not for us, anyways. Maybe some of the smaller tributes.

Assuming they got away, that is – the younger ones. I wasn't really watching. Aside from Memphis, I have no way of knowing who's dead. Or even how many.

Suddenly, a sound rings out – some sort of loud, booming noise, echoing through the arena. One. Two. Three. Four. Four explosions. What does that mean? There were four exits from the clearing – does that mean something? Or is it something else?

It doesn't matter right now. I shake my head as Crescent and I pick up our pace again. Still running. From what – or from who – I'm not even sure. Maybe death itself. But it's clear – so much clearer now – that we can't outrun it forever.

* * *

 **Horario Garcia, 15  
** **District Six**

I was waiting for her on the edge of the clearing – somewhere I thought would be safe. I was right about that much, at least. It was safe for me. Maybe I should have run to her, instead. She might still be alive.

And I might be dead. That's the one thought that keeps me running. Felicity's dead. She's gone. But I'm still alive. And, at the end of the day, if I could change what I did – if it meant that she would live and I would die – I wouldn't. The thought makes my stomach churn, but the fact that I hate it … it doesn't change the fact that it's true. I motioned to her to run to me. She did. I could have run to her, instead. I chose to risk her life rather than mine.

And so did she. She knew what running across that clearing could mean, didn't she? There weren't many tributes who ran for the weapons in the center, but there were enough. Enough to make it dangerous. She took that risk for … what? The chance to reach me?

I shake my head as I plunge onward into the maze. Teaming up with her was a mistake. Not because of her, but because teaming up with _anyone_ would have been a mistake. Having a partner means taking risks, and now I don't have to think about that. Maybe it's better that she died now, rather than later. Better that our short alliance cost her life rather than mine. I still have a chance. And I'm not going to give that up.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

I catch my breath as Aldous and I sink down into the sand, our backs against the wall of hedges behind us. I'm exhausted – not because we were moving fast, but because I was helping him. Supporting him. Doing exactly what I told myself I wouldn't do – letting him slow me down.

But it was the only thing to do. It was obvious he wasn't going to be able to reach me, so I had to get to him. His district partner ran across the clearing, too – in the opposite direction, towards Horario. I hope she made it. It would break Aldous' heart if she died.

No. No, not _if._ When. _When_ she dies. It's not a matter of _if_ – only whether she'll die before or after him, whether he'll live to see it. Whether either of us will live to see it.

For now, though, we're doing about as well as we could hope for. We made it far enough away from the pile of weapons that I don't think anyone will come after us. Not that anyone has a reason to come after us. I glance over at Aldous. "Did you see who else ran this way?"

"Clarisse and Elijah." He pauses for a moment, breathing hard. "Tullia, too, I think. But they were all pretty far ahead of us. I don't think anyone else came this way."

That doesn't mean no one _will_ , of course. And we have no way of knowing which passageways might meet up again farther along. But we're both alive. And we're together. And for now, that'll have to be enough.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

What I grabbed will have to be enough for now, because we are _not_ going back there. As soon as the gong sounded, I ran towards the center of the clearing. I was right – almost no one else did. The pair from Seven and the girls from Two and Four – they were the only ones trying to reach the weapons.

And me. I grabbed a few knives and a pair of daggers. Nothing impressive, but easy to carry. And it's a good thing, too, because the killing had already begun.

Technically, I suppose the killing began before the gong even sounded. But the Gamemakers killing Memphis … well, that's different from us killing each other. And, from the sound of it, four of us are dead.

Assuming that's what the cannons mean. I recognized the sound, of course, but I didn't see anything that looked even a little like a cannon in the pile of weapons. Which means it probably came from the Gamemakers. So either they're simply trying to frighten us, or it's a way of letting us know how many tributes are dead. A way to keep track of how many of us are left.

A way to keep score.

Four of us. Memphis, of course. But who else? There's no way of knowing – not without going back to see the bodies. And neither of us wants to do that.

I was prepared for this, of course – as prepared as anyone could be. But there was still a part of me that thought – that hoped – that maybe, _maybe_ there would be some hesitation. Some sign that we didn't really _want_ to start killing each other.

Maybe the Capitol made it easier by starting it themselves. Maybe Memphis' death made it easier for all of us to think about other tributes dying, or even about killing them. Me? It was simply a symbol of how horrible the Capitol is. A stark reminder that any of us could be killed at any moment, that we're nothing more than little pawns in their game – a game none of us can really win.

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

Okay. Okay, not so bad so far. We made it away from the clearing. Not that I was worried about that, of course. Not really. We were right by one of the openings in the wall, and that's the one we headed for – immediately.

To be honest, it was all I could do to keep from running the moment that explosion killed Memphis. It was only the girl's warning that kept me on my podium.

The girl. The one from Two. Gardenia. She warned us all to stay where we were. Why? The more of us exploded, the better for her – right? But I guess not even she wants to win like that. It doesn't quite seem fair – the fact that Memphis never had a chance.

Stupid. Of course he never had a chance. And that's good. Good for me, at least – and for Sienna. Four dead – if each of those cannons meant one person. Twenty of us left. Twenty-four to twenty in a matter of … what? Minutes?

The girl from Eight – Neblina – she ran this way, too. Maybe some others. I heard voices a little while back – Colt and Aubrey, maybe? They were close to us, but she ran towards the center. Should we have done the same? A weapon to defend ourselves with would be useful, but…

But there's nothing stopping us from going back later. Later, when it's safer. Maybe the best weapons – whichever those are – will be gone, but we're not exactly in a position to be picky. And it's not like anyone could carry all of them. There will be plenty for us later.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

No one else ran this direction. At least, not exactly this way. A few people left through the same exit, but, judging from the footprints in the sand, none of them came quite the same way that I did.

Unless, of course, they're doing what I've been doing. As soon as I came to a fork in the maze and saw that a set of footprints had gone one way, I broke a bit of shrubbery off one of the maze walls and began sweeping away my footsteps behind me as I went. It's slow going, sure, but it's better than being tracked. Not that I know much about tracking, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that leaving footprints is bad. If I could see them, so could anyone else.

Anyone else. Fortunately, there's no one else with me. I didn't have to find anyone else in the clearing. I just ran – as fast as I could, figuring that most of the other tributes would do the same.

And, from the sound of it, most of them did. If those loud _booms_ earlier meant four dead tributes, then … well, that's not _that_ many. And one of those was Memphis. And who knows whether the Gamemakers killed anyone else.

If they didn't … three. Three tributes dead at each other's hands. It's not a large number, but it's large enough to be frightening. More frightening than I'd like to admit. I could have been one of them. I still could be – any time now. The fact that I'm hiding my tracks isn't going to protect me forever. Eventually, I'll have to protect myself.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

Lincoln is still trembling as we finally stop for a rest. Not that I blame him, really. I'm shaking a bit myself, and I don't have another tribute's blood all over my shirt. Lincoln wasn't standing right next to Memphis, but he was close enough. Close enough to see everything. Close enough to be hit by the bits of flesh and blood as they flew in every direction.

As for me … well, that explosion brought back memories. By the time I snapped out of it, the count was almost down to zero. As soon as the gong rang, I ran to Lincoln as quickly as I could, grabbed his hand, and ran.

Fortunately, he followed. We ran until we were both out of breath, and, as soon as we get our bearings, we'll probably start running again. Try to get as far away as we can.

Just as I'm climbing to my feet again, Lincoln points at something. Our footprints. _Shit_. Anyone could be following us. Chances are, no one _is_ , but they _could_ be. Easily.

Before I can put any words together, however, Lincoln silently points to the wall, reaching up to one of the larger shrubby branches and wrapping his hand around it. A grin makes its way to my face as I realize what he's doing. _Climbing_. Hesitantly, I do the same, and, to my surprise, the shrubby branches hold our weight. Soon, we reach the top.

Carefully, the pair of us crawl along the top of the wall. We don't want to stand up, of course – or even sit up. If we can see from up here, the other tributes can see us. But as long as we stay low enough, we have a chance of going unnoticed. And, right now, that's the best we can ask for.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

I haven't seen anyone since I started running. Elijah was right beside me, but he and Clarisse turned one way, and I went the other. Not that I expected anything else. I never expected him – or anyone else – to stay with me. It's been pretty clear from the beginning: I'm on my own.

And maybe it's better that way. I didn't have to wait for anyone. I don't have to worry about anyone but myself. And worrying about myself is going to be enough. More than enough.

Another fork in the path. For all I know, I could be going in circles. Okay. It's morning. The sun is to my right, meaning that's east. As long as I keep heading east, I won't end up back in the center. Not every fork will lead east, of course, but as long as I don't end up going west, I should be fine.

I could try to climb over the wall, I suppose. But I'm not sure it would hold. And being at the top – that would mean others could see me. Better not to risk it – for now, at least. But if something happens and it's the only way out … well, it would certainly be worth a try. I hope it doesn't come to that, but I know better than to count on the best happening. I'm a twelve-year-old from District Twelve, and I'm in the first Hunger Games. Luck hasn't exactly been on my side so far. Why should that change now?

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

I hope it's been long enough. If it hasn't – if there are still people in the clearing – then what we're doing is dangerous. But a hell of a lot _less_ dangerous than running in there at the start. I don't know what made anyone think that was a good idea.

Maybe they saw a weapon they wanted – and wanted to make sure no one else got it. But there's nothing I want _that_ badly. Just something to defend myself with – that's all I'm hoping for as Clarisse and I slip back into the clearing.

Sure enough, there's no movement. No sign of any life as we make our way cautiously towards the pile of weapons. And why should there be? Anyone with half a brain took what they needed and ran. Or just ran. What possible reason could anyone have for sticking around?

Especially with the dead bodies just lying here. Three of them. Which makes four total, since Memphis … well, there's not much left. Just a bunch of blood and gore scattered around where his podium was. I try not to look.

There are three other bodies – the girl from Four, the boy from Seven, and the girl from Eleven. All strewn about. Are they just planning to leave the bodies here? The thought makes my stomach churn, but what else are they going to do? It's not like we have anything to bury them with. And not as if I would want to take the time to even if we did. I'm not staying here any longer than I have to.

Sure enough, there are plenty of weapons left. I tuck a few knives into my pocket, and Clarisse does the same. She also chooses a pair of daggers, and I find a long, thin sword. Nothing too big or heavy – whatever we take, we have to carry. We don't want anything that's going to slow us down.

* * *

 **Head Gamemaker Minerva Hale**

"That isn't quite what I was expecting," I admit as Augustus and I watch the tributes scatter throughout the arena.

Augustus cocks an eyebrow. "What do you mean? What were you expecting them to do?"

I hesitate. What _was_ I expecting? "I was expecting more of them to fight, I suppose."

"Why?" Augustus shrugs. "Most of them don't have any reason to attack each other – not yet, anyways. But they will, eventually. Sooner or later, they'll all turn on each other."

I shake my head. "How can you be so sure. If they didn't fight now…"

"Think about it. Right now, all they're thinking about is survival. Every instinct is telling them to run away from a fight. They're not thinking about the long-term. They're thinking in the moment – or, at least, most of them. They slept last night without having to fear for their lives. Their stomachs are full. When they're hungry, and tired, and on edge out of fear – _that's_ when they'll start to break."

I nod a little. I hope he's right. Not because I want them to _break_ , but because, if they don't kill each other, if they don't eventually start fighting, then the Capitol looks weak and foolish. And this soon after the rebellion, that's something we can't afford.

* * *

 **The Games have begun! A bit smaller bloodbath than what you may have been expecting, but let's be honest - we didn't really have a large number of tributes who were going to charge gung-ho into the bloodbath. They'll get there eventually, but they're not there yet.**

 **There's a map of the arena up on the blog where the map of the cornucopia used to be. It'll be kept up-to-date with tribute positions throughout the Games. (Thank you to Elim9 for the link to AutoRealm. Very useful.)**

 **Congratulations to Elijah, Colt, and Aldous, who won the sponsor poll and will be receiving a gift at some point during the Games.**


	23. Full of Possibilities

**Full of Possibilities**

" _Death is so final, whereas life, ahh – Life is full of possibilities."_

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

We can't stay here long. I know that as I finger the daggers I chose from the weapons pile. We can't linger. Someone else could decide at any moment that now is a good time to come back and find a weapon. After all, that's exactly what we did – waited until the right moment.

And now I'm glad we waited. I was thinking about running in at the start, but when the boy from Four exploded … well, I guess that changed things a bit. He never had a chance.

But it's more than that. He stepped off his pedestal for a reason. He wanted to show the Capitol that he didn't care about their rules. That he wasn't afraid of what they might do. That he wasn't afraid of them.

The same reason I volunteered.

Now, as much as I hate to admit it, I _am_ afraid. The Capitol killed him without a second thought. They could do the same to me – at any time. Here, I'm completely at their mercy – even now. They could send a hovercraft to shoot me down, and there's not a damn thing I could do about it.

A hovercraft. Even as the thought occurs to me, I hear a hum above us. "Run!" I call to Elijah, and, for a moment, he follows.

But as soon as we're out of the clearing, he stops. "Wait. They're not here for us. Look."

I don't want to look. I want to run. I want to get as far away from the clearing as possible. But my curiosity soon gets the better of me, and I join Elijah at the edge of the clearing, watching as a metal claw descends from the hovercraft, lifting one of the bodies in the center of the clearing. Then the second, and the third.

But there's one body they can't collect. Memphis' body is gone, completely obliterated by the explosion. I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. I didn't know Memphis – not really. But he was a rebel, just like my father, and, for that, I admired him – at least a bit. He wasn't afraid of the Capitol.

And now he's dead.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

Clarisse is silent as we make our way out of the clearing. Can't really say I blame her. Everything seems a bit more real now. Not only are four tributes dead, but their bodies are gone. They've been removed from the game entirely. Only twenty of us left.

We're still alive, though. And so are both of our district partners. Tullia's still alive. Maybe that shouldn't make me feel better, but it does. She's just a little kid. She doesn't deserve to be here. Doesn't deserve to die like this.

But she _is_ here. And she _is_ going to die. She has to, if I want to go home. I just hope that when death finds her, it finds her quickly. Painlessly. That's the best she can hope for. Maybe it's the best _any_ of us can hope for.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

I don't know what I was hoping to find. Maybe some sort of food. Berries. Leaves that look edible. Maybe some sort of animal. There doesn't seem to be anything nearby, but there _has_ to be. They can't just let us starve in here – not if they want us to kill each other.

Or, more pressingly, they can't just let us die of thirst. Because the lack of water will kill us long before the lack of food will. The sun is getting higher in the sky now, and everything is heating up. I can practically feel the hot sand even through my sandals. If I don't find some sort of shelter soon…

But there doesn't seem to be any. The walls of the maze are tall enough to provide a little shade, but with the sun so high, their shadows are pitifully short. Still, I walk as close to the wall as I can, trying to stay in the shadows as the path forks again. I turn left. North. At least, I'm pretty sure it's north. It's pretty hard to tell with the sun where it is now.

Suddenly, the path turns abruptly to the right, and I can see something. Trees. Some sort of trees, not too far ahead. I race forward as quickly as I can. Trees mean shade. Maybe they even mean food. I'm not sure which idea is more inviting right now.

As I get closer, however, I can see that food is unlikely. The trees are short, stubby, and disappointingly bare. Still, I keep moving forward, finally collapsing under one of the larger ones. Shade is all I really want right now. I can worry about food and water later.

There's a little moss growing on one side of the tree. Can I eat that? Maybe. Maybe, if I get desperate enough. But I'm not that desperate yet. I can rest here for a while, and then try to find some food and water. Maybe there are even a few animals living in these dead trees. Maybe. But right now, even that doesn't matter. Right now, I just want to rest.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

I never thought it would feel this good to just sit down and rest. The sand is hot, and the cut across my leg stings as I finally sit down to rest. But it's not as bad as I thought it was. Not as bad as it felt in the moment, when I thought Simon's axe was going to be the death of me.

It would have been, too, if not for Vance. Part of me wishes I had said more. Done something to thank him. But what could I have done? I let him go without a fight, and I guess that'll have to be enough. That's the most that any of us can do for each other now: not try to kill the other person. It isn't much of a gift, but it's something.

Okay. Time to take care of my leg. I don't really have much to work with, though. There were only weapons in the pile, and the only other thing I have to work with is my clothes. So that'll have to do. Using my sword, I clumsily slice a few strips off the bottom of my shirt. I shake my head. If I'd been thinking, I would have taken the shirts off the three dead bodies back in the clearing.

But I hadn't been thinking. Not really. I'd only wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. Besides, stealing from corpses … that just feels wrong. I think. Right and wrong aren't exactly as clear as I thought they were. As clear as I was sure they were going to be.

I was fine with the idea of killing rebels. Memphis, Simon, Silver – they were all fair game. Just like a war. Rebels against loyalists.

But the girl I killed – Felicity – she wasn't a rebel. Neither are most of the other tributes, especially now that Memphis and Simon are dead.

Dead. They're dead. But so is Bliss. My only ally. My friend. Now that the initial panic of my fight with Simon has worn off, it's starting to sink in. Bliss is dead. I'm alone. All alone in an arena with nineteen other tributes who are going to be trying to kill me.

Maybe I should have gone with Vance. Maybe I should have asked. But what would he have said? After seeing me kill that little girl, what _could_ he have said? What would _I_ have said in his place?

I wrap the strips of bandage a little tighter around my leg, then tie the last one off. It doesn't matter what he would have said. I didn't ask. And it's too late now. There's no knowing where he is. And no point worrying about it. The next time we see each other, we might have to try to kill each other.

I grit my teeth and finally manage to stand. It's harder now that I've gotten a little rest – harder to think about moving. But as the maze veers suddenly to the right, something catches my eye. Water. A pool of water – just ahead. I sprint towards it, the pain in my leg forgotten. Water. Immediately, I sink down beside the pond, scooping up handfuls of the water and drinking it greedily.

Maybe it's a good thing I didn't go with Vance. Maybe I wouldn't have found water. But now – now I can really rest for a while. There's enough water here to keep me alive for weeks. Chances are, the Games won't last that long. Chances are, we'll all kill each other long before I can die of thirst. And maybe that shouldn't be comforting … but it is.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

Vance really doesn't know when to shut up. He's been babbling since we left the clearing, trying to figure out whether he should have invited Gardenia to join us. Maybe he should have gone off with her, instead. At least it would be quieter.

Okay, I get it. He just killed a guy. And then saw his district partner kill a little girl. But we're still alive. That's what matters.

Thing is, I'm not sure how longer we'll _be_ alive if he keeps talking.

"I guess I can't really blame her," Vance says for what must be the fifth time. "I mean, she had no way of knowing who was behind her. For all she knew, it could have been someone who was going to attack her, right? She didn't _mean_ to kill Felicity."

"Yes, she did!" I finally snap. "Of course she meant to kill her! She meant to kill anyone who got in her way! That's what we're here to do – kill each other. Eventually, all of us are going to mean to kill _anyone!_ Even _you_."

That snaps him out of it, and both he and Carina stare at me in shock. "What? It's true. We're going to die – all but one of us. You want it to be you, Vance. Carina, you want it to be you. I want it to be me. Sure, we're helping each other now, but eventually, it's going to be every man for himself."

Vance stares for a moment. Then, without warning, he takes off down the path – back the way we came. Back towards the clearing. Within seconds, he's darted around a corner, out of sight. "Wait!" Carina calls after him, and starts down the path.

But I grab her arm. "Let him go."

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

 _Let him go._ Kennedy grabs my arm insistently, stopping me from running after Vance. And, just like that, I stop. Not because Kennedy's strong enough to hold onto me if I really wanted to keep running, but because he's right. If Vance can't handle this, then there's no point in having him around. And maybe that's cruel. It's certainly not kind. But we don't have _time_ to be kind. We can't afford to be kind. Not anymore.

Because this isn't a game anymore. We're not players, as much as the Capitol wants to think of this as a game, a competition. We're tributes. We're killers.

Or, at least, Vance is. He killed a boy, and if he can't handle that, then it's only a matter of time before he snaps. And if he snaps, who's to say he won't end up killing one of us? That he won't end up killing _me_? Maybe it's better that he's gone.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

Maybe it's better that I left. Better for me or better for them, I'm not sure. I keep running as fast as I can, but it's still not fast enough. Not fast enough to outrun what I saw, what I did.

Because no matter how much I try to justify it, how hard I try to rationalize it, to brush away what I did … I killed a boy. A soldier, yes, but a boy not that much older than me. He had a life. A life that's now gone, because of what I did.

If I hadn't killed him, of course, Gardenia would probably be dead. But what right did I have to choose her life over his? What makes her any worth saving than him? They're both soldiers, both killers. The fact that he was a rebel and she's a loyalist like me … that doesn't seem to matter so much anymore. In the end, they're both children.

Were. They _were_ both children. None of us are children anymore. We're tributes. And maybe Kennedy is right. Maybe I simply can't handle that. And maybe it's better if I stay as far away as possible from anyone I don't want to kill.

* * *

 **Horario Garcia, 15  
** **District Six**

I have to admit, I'm glad to be far away from anyone else. At least as far as I can tell, there's no one in the area. No one who might want to kill me.

Not that any of us _want_ to kill each other. Not really. But we'll have to, eventually, and when the others start to realize that, I'd rather be as far away as I can get. I shake my head, brushing the sweat out of my eyes, grateful that there's at least a little shade.

There's not much, of course. But the wall got taller once I got farther away from the clearing at the center. Maybe I'm nearing the edge of the arena. Maybe these taller walls are the border.

But what's beyond that border? There has to be something. Maybe … maybe there's a way out. A way out of the arena. Some part of me knows the thought is absurd, but it still fills me with a sudden hope. Maybe I can get out. Maybe I won't have to fight.

Maybe I can escape, instead.

I smile a little as I start to climb. Why didn't they think of that – the Gamemakers? Why put us in an arena that it'll be so easy to get out of? They could have put us on an island or locked us inside some sort of building. But a maze? How could they not have realized that someone would try to climb out?

I grit my teeth as I keep climbing. The wall didn't look so high from the ground. But I'm almost to the top. Almost…

Just as I grab hold of the top, however, something snaps. Or zaps. Maybe _I_ snap. All I know is that I'm falling, and I hit the ground with a sudden, terrible crack. Everything hurts. The back of my head is bleeding, but I can't move my arms to feel how bad it is.

The top. They must have electrified the top – like the rails on a railroad track. Stupid. So stupid. I should have thought of that. Someone else _would_ have thought of that. Someone like Felicity. She would never have let me climb up there. But she's dead. And I…

Footsteps interrupt my next thought. Two tributes – a boy and a girl – standing over me, horrified. The pair from Five. I can barely hear their voices over the ringing in my ears. _Is he dead? I'm not sure. He's still breathing. We can't just leave him here. Well, what do you_ want _to do?_

Then the boy kneels down. For a moment, I think he's going to pick me up. Save me. But that's out of the question. There is no saving me. My whole body hurts. The boy's hands are almost a relief as they close around my neck and squeeze.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

It's all over in seconds. The boy doesn't even struggle as my hands close around his neck, squeezing the life out of him. Maybe he realizes how badly he's hurt. Maybe he knows that, even if we wanted to, we would never be able to save his life. That it's kinder of us just to end it.

Kinder of _me_. Because it's my hands that tighten, squeezing the life out of him. It's my hands around his neck, my fingers gripping his throat. I'm the one who feels his pulse, faster and faster and then … and then gone.

 _Boom._

* * *

 **Crescent Nerine, 17  
** **District Five**

"So that's what the cannons mean." I don't realize I've said it aloud until the words leave my mouth. Icho looks up, startled. "The number of dead tributes," I explain. "Four earlier – and now one more."

One more. The boy whose body now lies in front of us. The boy Icho just killed. It was the right thing to do. Maybe even the kind thing to do. But there's still blood on his hands. There's blood everywhere. The boy's body was already badly broken and mangled by the time we got here. What happened to him?

"I think he was trying to climb," Icho says quietly. "Look at his hands." Sure enough, there are a few small cuts on his left hand – probably from trying to climb the wall. But it's the right hand that catches my attention. His palm is badly burned, as if he tried to grab hold of something very hot – or something with a lot of electricity.

"They must have some sort of current running along the top," I suggest. "Like an electric fence."

Icho shakes his head. "He was trying to escape. He just wanted to get out."

I nod a little. "And look where it got him."

Icho glances up, surprised, but then nods. He understands. There's no escaping this arena. There's only one way out – and only one of us is going to make it. Only one of us is going to survive.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

Nineteen of us left. Nineteen tributes, as long as the cannons mean what Peter thinks they mean. If they do, that makes one more tribute dead. Five total. And it's only the first day. It's barely afternoon.

There's a part of me that still can't believe it. But it's real. There's no denying it now. No trying to pretend that we can all simply join hands and wish the Games away. This is real. People are dying. _Children_ are dying. And any one of us could be next. _I_ could be next. _Peter_ could be next.

I'm not sure which thought scares me more.

If Peter is scared, though, he's not showing it. He keeps urging me forward, as if he's looking for something. I'm not sure exactly what he thinks he's going to find, but I suppose anything that keeps us moving is a good thing. The faster we keep moving, the farther we get from the clearing, the less likely we are to run into other tributes.

At least, that's what I keep trying to tell myself. The truth is, we have no way of knowing where any of the other tributes are now. They could be back at the clearing, but they could just as easily be somewhere nearby. We have no way of knowing which paths in the maze eventually meet up. No way of telling who could cross our path at any moment.

"Look!" Peter calls suddenly, pointing up ahead. Not far in front of us is another clearing – wide and open. The two of us make our way forward cautiously. There's no telling whether there are already tributes here.

But as we step into the clearing, it looks surprisingly empty. "First ones here, I guess," Peter shrugs. That makes me feel a little better. We've been moving pretty quickly, and I guess it's paid off.

Either that, or they came and left. There doesn't seem to be any particular reason to stay. We venture farther into the clearing, glancing around, but the only thing there seems to be an abundance of is a bunch of funny lines in the sand.

Suddenly, Peter freezes. "The lines. I know what made them."

"What?" I ask, stopping in my tracks.

Peter shakes his head. He's gone white as a sheet. "Snakes."

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

Snakes. I didn't even think about snakes. The whole time during training, I was worried that Sienna and I were going to be killed by the other tributes – by a sword or a spear or an axe or something. It never occurred to me that we'd have to worry about animals.

But of course there would be animals in the arena. Why wouldn't there be? The real question, of course, is what _kind_ of snakes they are. They could be perfectly harmless, or…

Or they could be deadly. And considering this is supposed to be a fight to the death, maybe the second option is more likely. But something else – something in my gut, maybe – is telling me otherwise. The Capitol wants to put on a good show. They want us to kill each other. And if we're killed by little snakes, then we're not killing each other.

Because, judging by the size of the tracks, the snakes are pretty small – no more than an inch in diameter and maybe a foot long. So if they're deadly, it's because they're venomous. And if not…

If not, then we might have found a good source of food. Snakes aren't the most appealing option for eating, but they're better than nothing. But there's no way to find out – not without actually seeing one of the snakes.

"We should go." Sienna's voice interrupts my thoughts. She's probably right. But I can't just leave. If we just walk away now, we'll never know whether we could have found food – right here, under our noses. And I can't stand _not_ knowing.

So I venture closer, and finally see something. Eggs – a pile of eggs in a small nest nearby. I freeze. There's a snake nearby, but it's very small – no more than a foot long. The eggs are tiny. If I can reach them without the snake noticing...

But as I reach down, the snake lunges, wrapping itself around my arm. I scream as it sinks its teeth into my hand. Sienna rushes over, pulling the snake off and tossing it to the ground. "Now can we leave?" she screams, but I reach down and scoop up the eggs before we race out of the clearing.

Once we're well away from the snakes, Sienna grabs my hand and takes a look. There are two tiny bite marks, but that's it. "It had a small head," I manage to gasp between breaths. "I don't think—"

"That doesn't _matter_!" Sienna insists. "Think! The Capitol bred all sorts of mutts during the war! Who knows what they put in here! It doesn't _matter_ whether it's a sort of snake that wouldn't usually be poisonous. How do you feel?"

The question catches me off-guard amid her shouting. "What?"

"How do you feel? Does it hurt? Is there any burning or swelling or—"

I shake my head. "I don't think so. Does that mean it's okay?"

"I don't know," Sienna admits. "I guess we'll find out."

 _We'll find out._ Yeah. If I die, we'll know. But at least if I die, it'll be my own damn fault. And at least I didn't get her hurt. I smile and hand her one of the eggs I swiped from the nest.

Sienna shakes her head. "Think the eggs are okay to eat?"

I shrug. "I guess we'll find out."

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

I'm in no hurry to find out who's behind us. I heard voices a little while ago, and Aubrey and I ducked into a small opening in the path. Now we're just sitting here, waiting – waiting for whoever it is to pass us by.

That's what we're hoping for. Or, at least, what _I'm_ hoping for. I'm not really sure what Aubrey wants anymore. I was assuming we were going to run away from the other tributes at the start, but she ran right into the middle of the clearing and grabbed two daggers and a handful of knives. I suppose I should be grateful. Now that we're armed, we can defend ourselves. But the truth is, I'm scared stiff.

And, for the first time, I'm afraid of _her_. My ally. My friend. The rebel soldier who clearly knows more about what she's doing than she ever let on. The girl who's been lying to the Capitol, trying to pretend she doesn't have any experience.

The girl I'm supposed to trust.

It's not as simple now as I assumed it would be. Now that we're actually in the Games, how much use have I been? She's the one who found the weapons. She heard the tributes behind us before I did. She figured out what the cannons mean. What have I done?

I've stayed alive. Like I've always done. I've survived. I've survived half a day so far. More than that. The sun is starting to sink in the sky. It's afternoon already.

But that realization doesn't help. It only reminds me of how hungry I am. Of the fact that we haven't found any food or water. That we're here, in the arena, alone, with two tributes close behind us.

And then I can see them. I freeze, clapping a hand over my mouth as they pass by, not even glancing in our direction. The girl from One and the boy from Twelve. Clarisse and Elijah. I glance over at Aubrey, motionless. Breathless. Wondering what she's going to do.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

I'm not even sure what I _should_ do, really. I know what the Capitol would want me to do. What the audience, the Gamemakers, the president would want me to do. They want to see us fight each other. And someone has to be the one to start a fight.

They would certainly put up a fight. They're well armed. But so are we. And we'd have the element of surprise. But would it even be _we_? Would Colt follow my lead, if I attacked them?

I clench my fists, shaking the thought away. That's what the Capitol wants. They want a fight. But I don't want to give it to them. Not yet. Clarisse and Elijah – they've done nothing to us. I don't _want_ to fight them. And I have no reason to.

It feels weird – not having a reason to fight. But there are plenty of good reasons not to. Even if we won the fight – even if we managed to kill them – what would our chances be of emerging unharmed? It's only the first day of the Games. An injury now – even a small one – could have drastic consequences later.

Later. We have to start thinking about later. Because eventually we'll have to fight. Eventually, one of the other tributes will attack us – or we'll be forced to attack them. But we're not there yet. We don't _have_ to fight them.

And, before I can start to second-guess my decision, they're gone. They never even saw us. Or maybe they did, and decided the same thing I did: that it's not worth it to fight. Not now. Colt and I breathe a sigh of relief, leaning back against the wall of the maze. For now, we're safe.

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

I can't help wondering how long we'll be safe here. It was my idea to climb the wall, but it was Maverick who realized that the other side was an enclosed space, a square maybe ten feet on each side, completely hidden from the rest of the maze. Here, we're safe.

But for how long? We've been pretty quiet, so I doubt any of the other tributes are going to find us, but how long will it be before we have to leave? This is a good hiding spot, but there's no food. And, more pressingly, no water. How long can we stay here?

I close my eyes, leaning back against the wall. Even if we can't _stay_ here, it's a good place to come back to at night, or when we need to rest. It's protected. Hidden. Just about everything we could ask for.

Except food and water.

I open my eyes again. The sun is getting lower in the sky, and it's getting harder to ignore the emptiness in my stomach. I ate breakfast this morning, of course – we all did – but we've had nothing since then. And there doesn't seem to be any sign of—

Just as the thought crosses my mind, however, Maverick springs up, startled. I open my mouth to ask him what's wrong, but before I can, he presses a finger to his lips. Then I hear it. Voices. "Damn it. This leads right back to the clearing." I glance over at Maverick, and he nods. The voice sounds familiar.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

It's Clarisse – I'm sure of it. But I don't say anything. What would I say? She's my district partner, but that doesn't mean she wouldn't kill me. For all I know, she's killed already. For all I know, she'd kill me without a second thought.

I shake my head a little. _Stop it._ Clarisse has done nothing to earn my suspicion. There's no reason to expect the worst from her. Well, aside from the fact that we're competition in a fight to the death. In the end, I suppose, we _all_ have to expect the worst from each other, or wind up dead.

I'm not used to that. During the war, I was afraid for my life, yes. But I was only afraid of what would happen if the rebels caught me. I was never concerned about trusting those who were on the same side. There was always an assumption that loyalists could be trusted. Period.

But now … Is there anyone I can really be sure of? Lincoln. I can trust Lincoln. Can't I? I can see him watching me in the fading light. The sun is starting to disappear behind the walls of the maze. Soon it'll be nighttime. We'll have to sleep – both of us. We'll be vulnerable. But is it really other tributes that we have to worry about? Or is it each other?

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

There's no one else I need to worry about now. I take a deep breath as I make my way forward in the dim light that remains. That's the one good thing about this whole messy situation. At least there's no one else I can hurt. No one that I care about, at least. No one else who will die because of my stupidity or my carelessness. They've already taken everyone I care about.

I never really thought that would be a good thing. But, in a terrible way, it's almost … freeing. They've taken everything from me. I have nothing left. But, by the same token, I have nothing left to lose. There's nothing to hold me back from doing whatever the hell I want, because there's nothing – _nothing_ – they can threaten me with now.

Except my own life, I suppose. But even that … do I really care anymore? I'm not even sure I _want_ to survive this. What would I have to go back to? No family. No friends. Nothing except the pain and the loss and the memories.

Suddenly, I hear voices. Two voices – a boy and a girl. I grip my knife tightly. There's someone close by. _Very_ close, from the sound of it. "Come on over!" the boy calls.

Shit. Did he hear me? Did he see me? I've tried to be quiet, but … okay, I haven't been trying that hard, if I'm being honest. Maybe I don't even care anymore whether or not anyone finds me. But the boy's voice – it didn't sound threatening. And his words were inviting. Maybe…

* * *

 **Aldous Clement, 17  
** **District Eleven**

Maybe there was no one there after all. I turn to Paean and shrug. "It was worth a try."

"Worth a try," she giggles. "And what would you have done if they weren't friendly? What if someone came and tried to kill us? What would you do?"

I smile a little. "Tell you to run – like I told you to do in the clearing. Then again, you didn't exactly listen."

"And if I _had_ listened, you would be dead," she shoots back.

I nod a little, too tired to argue. I'm honestly not sure whether she's right or not. Whether the other tributes would have killed me if we hadn't made it out of the clearing so quickly. If she hadn't run to me and helped. If she hadn't done exactly what she promised not to do – risk her life to save mine.

But, whether my life was actually in danger or not, I'm definitely grateful for the company. This arena would be a lot more frightening if I was alone. I lean back against the wall of the maze, hoping Felicity isn't alone. Maybe she made it to Horario. Maybe they're together somewhere – maybe even nearby.

Maybe that was why I called out, when I thought I heard another tribute. But Felicity would have come – wouldn't she? If she had found me, wouldn't she at least stop and say hello?

 _Stupid_. Of course not. This isn't a friendly social gathering. This is a fight to the death. But with Paean here, it's easy to forget that. Easy to ignore the reality of what's happening. That any of us could die at any moment. That some of us are already dead. But how many? And who? I just wish I knew.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

Maybe it's better that we don't know. I watch Aldous' face in the growing twilight, grateful that at least we have each other. Maybe it's better not to know for sure about any of the others. About our district partners. About the other tributes. It's easier to ignore the fact that they might be dead.

Actually, it's surprisingly easy to forget that _anyone_ is dead. That any of us could be dead soon. There's something in the air as the night starts to settle in. Something inviting. Something exciting. Something _real_. I know I should feel afraid. I should feel terrified. But all I feel is _alive_.

Just as the last of the light fades from the sky, there's a noise. A strange sort of pinging noise, coming from above. Aldous and I both glance up to see a light flashing. Coming towards us. I spring to my feet, ready to run, but the noise isn't coming from a weapon. It's a small parachute, drifting towards us.

I take a step backwards as it lands at my feet. What is it? A bomb? It's a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, less than a foot long and wide, and only a few inches tall. There's a black "11" written on the top. I raise an eyebrow, shrugging at Aldous. "For you, apparently."

He reaches for it without hesitation. I have to admire that, really. How can he be so sure it won't blow up in his face? Then again, I suppose that's how he lost his arm, so maybe he recognizes explosives when he sees them. He gives the package a shake, and, for one terrifying, wonderful moment, I'm afraid it's going to explode.

But it doesn't. He studies the package for a moment, then unties it as quickly as he can with one hand. Maybe I should offer to help, but he finally manages it. I kneel down beside him. "What is it?"

Aldous studies the contents of the package curiously. "A box of matches. Some sort of plants. And this." He holds out a piece of paper. "It's too dark to—"

That's probably what the matches are for. I take the paper, reach for the box, strike one, and hold it up near the paper – but not close enough to burn it. It's a list. _D4F, D4M, D6M, D7M, D11F_

It doesn't take a genius to figure it out. D for district. Numbers for district numbers. M for male, F for female. It's a list – a list that Horario and Felicity are both on. A list of tributes who…

Immediately, I hold the match closer, and the paper catches fire. "Damn it!" I shout, making a show of shaking it, trying to put the fire out. Only once the flames come threateningly close to my fingers do I drop the paper, quickly smothering it in the sand.

"What was it?" Aldous asks.

"Directions," I lie. "Directions for how to prepare these." I kneel, picking up the leaves that were in the package. "But I suppose we'll manage without them."

Aldous smiles. He doesn't suspect. And it's better that way. Horario and Felicity are dead. The longer before he finds out, the better. If fate is kind, maybe he'll never know.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

Fate has certainly decided to be kind tonight. I smile a little as I settle down for the night. If anyone happens to come this way, their chances of noticing me are slim. Not because of the little hole I found in the wall, barely large enough for me to fit inside. I would still be pretty obvious to someone who happened to be looking in this direction.

No, my real fortune is in the pair of tributes who happen to be nearby. The girl form Six and the boy from Eleven. They lit a fire a while ago, and the smell would carry quite a ways even if they weren't laughing far too loudly to avoid attention.

Maybe they'll get lucky. Maybe no one will come looking for them. Maybe no one would want to attack a pair of older tributes – no matter what state they're in. But the point is, they'll distract anyone who comes this way. They'll grab the other tributes' attention, and, even if someone comes, I can sneak away.

That's the plan, at least. But I'm still hesitant to close my eyes. What if I never open them again? For days, I've been telling myself that I'm not afraid of death. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm just afraid that I won't even know when it comes. That one moment, I'll be alive, and the next, I'll be dead.

I've heard people say that they'd rather die in their sleep – that way, they won't feel a thing. But death _should_ feel like something. It shouldn't be silent, unnoticeable. Death should be a presence, not an absence. And if I die here, while I'm sleeping, that's all there will be – an absence of me.

I can't help a yawn. Maybe the smoke from the other tributes' fire is starting to get to me. It doesn't really matter _how_ someone dies. What matters is that they're gone. And who remembers them.

I wonder who will remember me.

* * *

 **Maia Salisbury  
** **District Six Escort**

"What the hell was that?" Lucius continues raging, and I can't help but giggle a little. The eleven of us escorts decided that my quarters would be a good place to gather to watch the Games. Not because any of them have a particular love for District Six, but because either the sixth or the seventh floor would be a central location and, let's face it, I'm much more accommodating than General Sourpuss.

"Easy, Lucy," I croon, even though it's obvious that Lucius hasn't taken kindly to his nickname. "Whatever's the matter?"

"Why the hell would Aldous get a package? It doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, come now," I coax. "You know the rules. During the day, the audience votes for their favorites, and that night, as long as they're still alive, the top tribute gets a gift – along with a list of the tributes who were killed that day. They explained it all this morning. Weren't you listening?"

"Of course I was listening," Lucius scoffs. "But why _Aldous_? Why would they vote for him? Why vote for a crippled, one-armed, former rebel soldier?"

I shrug. "Maybe they like an underdog."

Lucius only glares. "We just fought a war against an army of underdogs. _No one_ in the Capitol likes an underdog right now."

I can't help a giggle. "Apparently, they do."

* * *

 **So that's how we've imagining sponsoring worked at the start ... until the Capitol realized they could make a profit off of it. Capitolites vote for their favorites, and the winner gets a gift at the end of the day. Colt and Elijah will be getting theirs soon. After that, it's up to us.**


	24. Wait

**Wait**

" _It's better to wait for the right time than risk everything."_

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

Every path seems to lead back to this clearing. To this pile of weapons. The sun set a while ago. I should be tired enough to sleep. But not here. The moon is bright enough to see that the bodies are gone, but the sand is still covered with blood. Blood that I spilled.

Not just me, of course. But I was part of it. Maybe I've always been part of it. Maybe I just didn't want to admit it – that when District Two was supporting the Capitol, we were supporting this. What did we think would happen to the districts once the Capitol won? Would they really have been able to win without our support?

How much of this is our fault? My fault? I throw my spear to the ground and sink to my knees. Maybe this is exactly what I deserve. Maybe I deserve to be in the arena. Maybe I deserve to be a killer – or to be killed. Maybe I deserve to die.

Then I hear it. Some sort of sound, echoing through the maze. It sounds almost like … like laughter. How could anyone be _laughing_ in here? Maybe they've simply gone mad. Maybe _I've_ gone mad. Maybe I'm hearing things. Maybe.

Suddenly, I have to know. Have to know whether it's all in my head or not. I pick up my spear again, making my way towards the sound. It's not hard to follow. As I get closer, I can hear the voices better. They're coming from a boy and a girl. The air seems to be getting thicker, and, after a moment, I realize that it's because of the smoke drifting from what must be their fire. I freeze, trying hard not to cough. But the smoke is getting thicker. Finally, I can't help it.

I only cough once, but that's enough. Enough for them to hear me. For a moment, the voices stop. Then the boy calls out. "It's all right! Come and join us!"

What?

I know I shouldn't. I know it's not going to make things any better. Not going to erase what I've already done in the arena. But I take a few steps closer. Then a few more. I make my way around a corner, and I can finally see them – the girl from Six and the boy from Eleven. I raise my spear, ready to defend myself. But they don't seem to be armed.

The girl smiles a little. "You don't want to use that."

And she's right. I don't want to. I never have. Before I know what I'm doing, I've thrown the spear to the ground and taken a seat beside their fire. Beside them. The girl wraps an arm around my shoulders, and the boy smiles. "Glad you could join us."

* * *

 **Aldous Clement, 17  
** **District Eleven**

For a moment, I wasn't sure if he was going to join us or kill us. But the more I watch the boy from Two, the more I realize that he's just that: a boy. A boy who doesn't want to fight – no more than the rest of us do.

I couldn't help but notice, though, that he already has. That the end of his spear is covered in blood. Whose blood? I don't know, and maybe I don't want to. I certainly don't want to ask. If he wants to talk about it, he will. If not…

"You were a soldier," the boy says quietly after a moment. It's not really a question, but I nod in response, anyway. It's not really something I've been trying to hide. "Did you ever … did you ever kill anyone?"

I shake my head. "No. Not personally, anyways. But I saw plenty of death. More than my fill." I give his spear a tap. "That's why I'm grateful you decided not to use this. I would've hated to ruin my no-kill record."

That gets a laugh out of him. Good. He clearly needed one. Whatever he's already done today, it's been enough. More than enough for a lifetime.

"I killed a boy," he says at last, his voice barely a whisper. "He was going to kill my district partner, but … I don't know. Did she really deserve to be saved?"

I smile a little. "All of us deserve to be saved – or none of us do. We're all just kids, Vance."

"Even if she killed…" He trails off for a moment. "I mean, if I hadn't, then she wouldn't have been able to … she killed a little girl."

I can't help the dread in my voice as I fight back a lump in my throat. "Which little girl?"

The boy shakes his head. "Felicity. The little girl from … from your district. She was running across the clearing, trying to get to her ally, and Gardenia thought … well, she thought she was someone else. I … I'm sorry."

My stomach churns as I stare into the fire. Felicity. She's dead. I thought … I'm not sure what I thought, really. That I would be the first one to go? That surely she would make it farther than me. That's why I told her not to stay with me, after all. I all but told her to find another ally. Did that decision lead to her death?

No. No, I can't start placing blame like that. Not on myself. Not on Vance. Not even on his district partner, Gardenia. None of us asked to be here. She was only doing what she was expected to do. What the Capitol expects all of us to do eventually.

But I'm not going to. Not just because I probably can't. Not just because there are few people in the arena I could take on in a fight even if I wanted to. But because what I told Vance was true. I may have technically been a soldier, but I've never killed. I saved lives during the war. And maybe I can't do the same here, but that doesn't mean I have to take them. And maybe that's enough.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

I can't do this. I thought I could, but I can't just sit here and listen to them. Listen to the boy from Two make excuses for killing Simon. For the fact that his district partner killed a little girl, and he did nothing to stop her. District Two supported the Capitol during the war, so maybe it makes sense that both of them would already have blood on their hands. Hell, maybe they even _want_ to be here.

That's probably what they think of me, of course. That I wanted this because I volunteered. But I volunteered to save my family. At least, I _thought_ it would save my family. I'll never be able to get revenge on the Capitol. On the people who killed my family. On those who oppressed us during the war. But maybe … well, maybe I _can_ have the next best thing.

They're just sitting there. I could do it. I could rush in, kill the boy from Two, and make it out again. Neither of the others would be able to stop me. The boy from Eleven can barely stand, and the girl from Six is so high, she's barely conscious. I wouldn't have to kill either of them.

Just the boy who killed Simon.

I grip my knife tightly as I make my way closer, wishing I had grabbed something else from the pile of weapons. Something I could use from a distance. I could throw it, I suppose – just like I threw the axe at the girl from Four. But that was a lucky shot. Would I really get that lucky again? Maybe, but if I don't…

If I don't, all I'd have left is a whip. Not really much use in a fight. Maybe I could use it to choke someone, but only if I actually got close.

Finally, I reach the corner and peek around. The three of them are sitting around the fire, silent. Maybe the news about Felicity's death sobered them a little. Good. At least they aren't heartless enough to laugh and make light of a little girl's death. Still. The two of them invited the boy from Two to share their fire. To join them. And even after learning what he'd done, they didn't seem to care.

But I care. I cared about Simon. About Memphis. And they're both dead, because of people like Vance. People who supported the Capitol during the war, who gave them the power to create these Games.

I can't kill all of them. But I _can_ kill him.

I lunge at Vance, but the other boy hears me. He turns around. Just as my knife is plunging towards Vance's chest, he pushes Vance out of the way. I try to stop, but momentum carries me towards him anyway. Buries my knife in his chest.

The boy from Two immediately springs up and runs. Coward. I yank my knife out of the other boy's chest and race after him. Both of the others are too stunned to stop me. But Vance is already long gone.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

There's blood everywhere. Flowing out of Aldous' chest as he struggles to breathe. Covering my hands as I fight to stop the bleeding. Dripping onto the sand. I bunch together pieces of Aldous' shirt and press them against the wound, but it's not enough.

Aldous catches my hand in his. "It's all right. Just … just don't leave. Please."

I won't. I can't. I squeeze Aldous' hand as tightly as I can. He squeezes back gently. "I won't," I promise.

And I don't. I stay, cradling his body as his breathing becomes thin and shallow, his ragged gasps filling the air even after I douse the fire. I stay as the blood continues to seep through my pathetic attempts to bandage the wound. I stay as his grip on my hand begins to grow weaker and weaker.

It doesn't take long. Only a few minutes, maybe. But it feels like hours. Finally, his eyes lose their focus. He smiles a little. "Take your time," he whispers.

"What?"

He squeezes my hand gently. "I'll see you again. But take your time. I'll be wait…"

He never gets to finish the sentence. A cannon sounds, and I can't stop the tears brimming in my eyes. It isn't fair. None of it. He shouldn't have died. It should have been the other boy. Or the girl who attacked us. Or maybe even me.

But it wasn't. I'm still alive. I take a deep breath, laying Aldous' body down gently in the sand. I shake my head, watching as the last remains of our little fire smolder in the night. I should have known. Should have known that it couldn't last. Nothing does. Certainly not the peace that Aldous wanted. I climb to my feet, picking up the spear that Vance left when he took off.

Peace isn't an option anymore. Maybe it never was. And maybe it's time to stop sitting around and laughing. Maybe it's time to act.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I was right about no one noticing me. Neither of the tributes running away from the fire noticed me. Neither of them passed by me, really – they were headed in the other direction – but who knows what might have happened if they hadn't gotten distracted by Aldous and Paean.

Distracted. That's a kind way of putting it. Distracted by killing them. The girl's knife was bloody, and a cannon followed not long after she ran away. One of them is dead.

One of them. I could go find out which one, I suppose. I could try to get a closer look. But that could be dangerous. If one of them is dead, the other one might lash out.

Then again, the other one could be dying, too. Maybe they have food, or weapons, or other supplies that would go to waste if they both died. Maybe…

I shake my head as I settle back down for the night. If the other one dies, there'll be another cannon. Then I can go and look. But not until then. I can afford to wait. If there's one thing we have plenty of here in the arena, it's time.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

I can't help wondering how much time I have left. How long before someone finds me? How long before I have to leave the relative safety of the dead trees I've found and go out searching for food and water? How long before I start starving to death?

I never really thought about that, I guess. The Capitol decided to call this the "Hunger Games" for a reason, but once they said it was a fight to the death, I just assumed … well, I assumed that, if I was going to die, it would be another tribute that killed me. But what if I simply starve here? Is that better or worse?

I shake my head. I'm not to that point yet. Not really. My stomach hurts, but I've still got a while before I actually start to starve. We had to do without during the war. This isn't really that different. I'm just so thirsty...

I close my eyes, but I can't seem to go to sleep. The last time I almost fell asleep, the cannon woke me. Another cannon. That makes six now. Six cannons.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

"I think I know what the cannons mean," I whisper to Clarisse as we keep walking in the dark. Maybe we should settle down for the night, but that just seems too dangerous right now. Especially if the cannons mean what I think they do.

"What?" Clarisse asks, surprised.

"I think they're counting." She turns, confused. "Counting the dead tributes," I clarify. "Think about it. Four at the start. How many bodies were in the clearing?"

"Three."

"Right. Three bodies. Plus Memphis. That's four. If I'm right, two more tributes have died since then."

Clarisse shakes her head. "I don't know. Do you really think…"

She doesn't finish the sentence. Do I really think what? That so many tributes would be dead already? That they would start killing each other so soon? It's a bit of an odd question, coming from someone who volunteered for this. What did she _think_ was going to happen?

But I don't say that. Who knows what she would do? Would she storm off if I suggested that she should have known this is _exactly_ what would happen? If I imply – even accidentally – that I think she made a mistake when she volunteered … even if that's exactly what I think. Would she leave? Would she attack me?

No. Now I'm just being paranoid. Even if I was stupid enough to say what I'm thinking right now, I don't actually believe she'd attack me. In fact, despite the fact that she volunteered, I don't think she's ready to attack _anyone_. And maybe that's just as well. I'm not sure _I'm_ ready to attack anyone, either. But if someone else attacked us…

Of course, who's going to be that stupid? There are two of us, and we're armed. I grip my dagger tightly as we continue on in the dark. If I'm right, two more tributes have died since the start. So there _are_ tributes out there attacking others. How long will it be before someone finds us? I don't _want_ to believe that that's what the cannons mean, but the fact that I don't _want_ it to be true doesn't make it false.

"I don't know," I finally admit. "Maybe. It was just a guess."

Just a guess. That makes it sound a little better. A little less threatening. But, even as I say it, I'm becoming more and more certain. Six cannons. Six tributes are dead. That's a quarter of us. Eighteen tributes left. And I'm still alive.

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

Maybe he's right. I grip my dagger tightly as Elijah and I walk in silence for a while. He could be right about the cannons. But if he's right, then…

Then what? We both knew that tributes would start killing each other eventually. But I always figured it would start with the ones who would obviously target each other. The rebels and the loyalists. But that meant Gardenia and Bliss against Memphis, Silver, and Simon. We knew three of them were dead, and then the little girl from Eleven. But if two tributes have died since then, it means that others have started to kill. Not just the rebels and the loyalists. It isn't just one side against the other anymore.

And that's frightening, because it brings us one step closer to the inevitable. Both Elijah and I knew from the start that we couldn't stay together forever. Eventually, only one of us can win. And maybe we're nowhere near that point yet. But if he's right about what the cannons mean, then each one is a reminder that we're getting closer and closer. That, eventually, it'll be him or me. Only one of us can win. Only one of us can live. And I want it to be me.

Suddenly, Elijah stops short. "Do you feel that?"

"What?"

He kneels down, feeling the ground, and I realize he's right. It's begun to sink a bit more easily beneath our sandals. Almost as if it's—

"It's wet," Elijah confirms with a grin. "There must be – over there!" He points up ahead, practically laughing. "There's water!"

As he races towards it, I realize he's right. Both of us rush towards the water, all thoughts of death forgotten. I plunge my hands into the water, drinking greedily. I hadn't realized just how thirsty I was. For a moment, none of it matters – the arena, the Games, the killing. For a moment, all I can think about is how good the water tastes. For a moment, I feel completely alive.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

I know it's only a moment or so, but it feels like an eternity before the cannon finally stops echoing. Another tribute dead. That makes six. Which means only eighteen of us are left.

I take a deep breath. Six doesn't sound like a very large number. But it's only the first day. Well, the first night. If the Games keep going at this rate, it'll all be over in a few days.

I'm not really sure whether that's a good thing or not.

It's a good thing for whoever comes out alive, I guess. Good that they wouldn't have to spend so long in the arena. I was imagining something longer. Weeks, maybe, before all the tributes are dead. And maybe it will be. But not if we keep killing each other at this rate.

And I had a hand in it. The boy from Six – I'm the one who killed him. He would have died anyway, of course. There's no way he would have survived his injuries. What I did was kind. But, still, I'm responsible for one of the six cannons that have sounded so far. How much more blood will I have on my hands before the Games are over?

I clench my fists tightly. As much as it takes. The boy from Six would have been dead with or without me, but the same could be said for every other tribute in the arena. They're going to die, whether I have a hand in it or not. There's already blood on my hands. Why does it matter if they get a little bloodier before the Games are over? As long as I survive, it'll all be worth it.

I can't help glancing over at Crescent as we keep walking. It's easy to say that, when I've only been faced with killing a tribute I didn't really know. A tribute who was dying, anyway. Will it be that easy when I'm facing someone in an actual fight? We don't even have any weapons. How are we supposed to defend ourselves?

One thing at a time, I suppose. We won't be able to defend ourselves at all – weapons or not – if we're dying of hunger and thirst. We've been walking for hours. At times, it's felt like we've been going in circles. Maybe we have. But we haven't found anything that looks edible, or water of any kind.

Then again, even if we did, would we be able to see it in the dark? Probably not. "Maybe we should stop for a while," I suggest at last. Part of me didn't want to be the one to suggest it – didn't want to look weak, like I needed a rest – but damn it, I'm getting tired. And I'm sure Crescent is, too. If she's not willing to admit that we need to rest—

"Okay." To my relief, she readily agrees. Maybe she's just as tired as I am. "I don't think we're going to find a better place tonight."

 _Or ever_. But I don't say it. It's not like there's going to be a _good_ place to stop in the arena. Everywhere is dangerous. But there are two of us, so one of us could stay awake…

"I'll take the first watch," Crescent offers as the two of us sit down. I'm too tired to argue. Too tired to question her intentions. If she wanted to kill me, she could have already. She could have attacked me earlier when I was kneeling beside the boy from Six. Whether she's offering to stay awake because she's being kind or because she wants to look strong, I'm not sure. Maybe it doesn't matter. All that matters right now is that I get to rest. Everything else can wait.

* * *

 **Crescent Nerine, 17  
** **District Five**

Icho's asleep almost immediately after I offer to stay awake. Not that I blame him, really. We're both exhausted. We haven't had anything to eat or drink since breakfast, and we've been walking practically all day, trying to keep moving. Looking for food and water. If we don't find something soon…

But there has to be _something_. They wouldn't simply put us in an arena with no food or water in it. Even at the rate tributes have been dying so far, we'd die of thirst before the end. And while they may want one or two of us dying of hunger – it is the _Hunger_ Games, after all – that doesn't really make things very exciting for the Capitol audience.

So there have to be food and water somewhere. It's just a matter of finding them. And that'll be easier in the morning. The best thing we can do right now is get some rest, if we can.

If we can. Maybe that's the real reason I decided to let Icho sleep first. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to. Sure, I'm tired, but closing my eyes now seems … well, dangerous. It's real now. Six tributes are dead. Any of us could be next, especially if we're not paying attention.

That thought doesn't seem to be bothering Icho, though. He's out like a light. Maybe I will be, too, once I actually lie down and close my eyes. But, somehow, I doubt it. If someone were to attack us in our sleep, we'd be completely defenseless.

But, in a way, aren't we already? It's not as if we have any weapons. Sure, Icho killed the boy from Six, but it wasn't as if he put up a fight. How are we supposed to protect ourselves if someone actually _attacks_ us? What are we supposed to do?

Hope, I guess. Hope that we find some sort of weapons – or something we can make weapons out of – before someone finds us. We could go back to the clearing, I suppose, and see if there are any weapons left. But I'm not sure we could find our way back, even if we wanted to. It took us a day to get this far. And there were only weapons there – no food or water. So even if we managed to find our way back there, we'd be starving by the time we left again.

No, the only way to go is forward. But not right now. Right now, we need to rest. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

Food will just have to wait until tomorrow. I wince a little at the pain in my leg as I take one more drink of water before lying down to rest. Tomorrow. Maybe my leg will feel better tomorrow. Probably not. It takes a while for something like this to heal. But I don't have _a while_. I'm not sure how long I'll have before I'll have to fight again, but it won't be long.

I'll just have to hope it's long enough. After all, I can't be the only one who's hurt. The other tributes will want to rest and recover, too. At least, I'm assuming they will. No one will want to keep going too long into the night. Not when it's getting darker.

And it _is_ getting darker. The moon was covered by clouds a little while ago. There's not much light left. I just hope it doesn't rain. Maybe it's a cruel thing to say, but rain would rob me of my advantage. I don't know how many tributes have found water, but it can't be too many. If I'm one of the only ones who knows where water is, I have an advantage. But if it rains…

Then again, if it rains, it'll wash away everyone's footprints, which could be a good thing. I didn't really think about that on the way here – about the fact that anyone could follow my footprints. Not in the dark, obviously, but once the sun comes up again, anyone would be able to find me.

But would anyone really want to? Is anyone really going to be out looking for tributes to kill? Probably not. We're probably all looking for the same things – food and water. I've found one of them. That's enough for today. Everything else can wait.

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

I just hope those clouds mean rain. It's cooled off since the sun went down, but it's still dry. And those snake eggs weren't exactly filling. Both of us are thirsty, and hungry, and tired. We stopped for the night, and Sienna offered to let me sleep first, but I can't seem to.

What if I never wake up again? What if the snake actually _was_ poisonous, and the venom is just taking its time? What if someone finds us and Sienna doesn't notice in time? What if she _does_ notice but there's nothing we can do?

What would there be to do, anyway? It's not as if we have any weapons. If she noticed in time, we could run, I suppose. But how long could we really outrun another tribute? I don't know how far I could actually make it. I'm just so tired.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

It's a while before Peter finally falls asleep, but I can't really blame him for that. He's obviously tired, but it can't be easy to fall asleep here. Maybe that's why I offered to stay awake first. Or maybe he's earned the right to sleep first. He did get bitten by a snake, after all.

Which was his own fault, of course, but at least it doesn't seem to have hurt him. Still, I can't help looking over at him every now and then to make sure he's still breathing. Still alive. Silly of me, I suppose. If he does die, there will probably be a cannon to let me know. But that's not how I want to find out that my friend is dead.

My friend. I know it's dangerous to start thinking him about that. And sometimes he seems less like a friend and more like one of my little brothers. I'm not sure which one is better. Because if I want to get back home to my _real_ brother and sisters, then he's going to have to die.

But it doesn't have to be now. He doesn't have to die yet. We still have time. But I can't help wondering, if it comes down to his life or mine, whose would I really choose?

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

I can't help thinking about what Kennedy said earlier, just before Vance ran off. _We're going to die – all but one of us. You want it to be you, Vance. Carina, you want it to be you. I want it to be me. Sure, we're helping each other now, but eventually, it's going to be every man for himself._

He was right, of course. Eventually, we'll have to stop helping each other. We may even have to kill each other. But looking at him now, fast asleep, you wouldn't know it. I could stab him in the back right now, and he would never know it. Not that I _want_ to, but I _could_. And there wouldn't be a thing he could do about it.

Of course, the same will be true of me, when I decide to wake him and go to sleep myself. I wonder if the same thoughts will cross his mind. Maybe. Maybe I shouldn't be thinking anything of the sort, but … well, this is a fight to the death. And he's right that one of us is going to have to die – eventually – if the other one is going to live.

One of us. Or both of us. There are so many other tributes. What makes me think one of us is going to win?

I grip my spear tightly, staring out into the night. Maybe it's wishful thinking. But it's all I have right now. None of us are going into this _thinking_ that we're going to die. Well, maybe some of us are. Lincoln, maybe, or some of the other younger ones. Then again, Kennedy's not that much older. None of us are really that old. Even though I'm one of the oldest, I still feel…

What? Unprepared? How could any of us expect to be prepared for this? There is no preparing for something like this. All we can really do is do our best to survive. That's all. We're not soldiers. We're not killers. We're just kids.

I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse.

The wind rustles through the maze again, startling me. If someone _were_ to find us, what would I do? Stab them with the spear I'm holding? Maybe. Maybe just the sight of me with a spear would be enough to scare them off. There's a part of me that hopes that would be the case. That I wouldn't have to kill them.

But it's a part of me that I need to keep hidden, if I'm going to survive the Games – or even survive tonight. I grip my spear tightly. I have to look like I'm ready to use it … even if I'm not.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

I'm not really ready to wake up when Carina gives my shoulder a shake, but I can't afford to show it. How long has it been? An hour? Two? Carina says it's been at least three, but how would she know? How are any of us supposed to keep track of time?

Maybe if there weren't so many clouds. Maybe then the moon would be enough for us to keep track – at least roughly – of how many hours have passed. But the clouds have shown no signs of disappearing. I rub the sleep from my eyes as I settle in for a few long hours, my club gripped tightly in my hands. If it's going to be this cloudy, at least it could rain.

Actually, I'm not sure whether I would want it to or not. Water would be good, of course – and certainly a relief from the heat of yesterday. But we don't exactly have any shelter, so rain would mean that everything would get wet – including us. Wet clothes. Wet sand. Maybe it's better that it stays dry.

Dry sand is bad enough. It's already all over our clothes, filling our sandals, sticking in our hair. It probably seems like a stupid thing to be complaining about when our lives are on the line, but it's absolutely impossible to get comfortable when your clothes are full of sand. And it's hard to sleep when you're that uncomfortable.

But apparently I managed it, because I was obviously asleep before Carina woke me. It doesn't feel like I slept well, though – or long. Maybe because it took me a while to get to sleep. Maybe because I didn't sleep as long as Carina thought. Either way, I'm still exhausted.

Maybe I'd better get used to it. I doubt I'm ever going to sleep well here. Maybe no one is. But Carina falls asleep fairly quickly after she lies down. At least, I think she's asleep. She's breathing softly, and her eyes are closed, but I have no way of knowing whether she's actually asleep or not.

Maybe it doesn't matter. But if we _do_ get attacked by someone, I'd rather have a well-rested partner than a sleepy one. Then again, I'd also rather _be_ a well-rested partner than a sleepy one.

I rub my eyes again, then brush the sand off my hands. Why does it have to stick to everything? It's almost a relief when the rain finally starts.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

It's the rain that wakes me. I was out cold, but the water on my face startles me out of my sleep. I can see Aubrey grinning, cupping her hands and drinking gratefully. And maybe I should be grateful, too. Grateful that at least we're not going to die of thirst tonight.

But if we aren't, then neither is anyone else. We have water now, yes, but so does every other tribute in the arena. And maybe it's horrible of me to think it, but that doesn't seem like a good thing. It's not that I _want_ any of them to starve, or to die of thirst, but that would certainly make it easier for us.

Us. Aubrey and me. She doesn't seem to care what this might mean for the rest of the tributes. And maybe she's got the right idea. The other tributes aren't our problem right now. Right now, we just have to worry about ourselves. And that's more than enough to worry about.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

I have to admit, I was worried for a while that they were going to let all of us die of thirst. That would certainly be one way to get us to die faster. But they don't want us to die quickly. They don't want us to starve or die of thirst or cold or heat or exposure. They want us to kill each other. And we can't do that if we're too weak to fight.

So water it is. And maybe I should be grateful. But right now all the water seems to mean is that the Games are going to last a lot longer than I had assumed they would. I thought it would only be a matter of days before we all either killed each other or died of thirst. Mostly died of thirst. But if they're planning to supply us with water…

Then they really do mean for us to kill each other, and they really do expect us to be able to do it without their help. Without their interference. They're confident enough that we'll turn on each other eventually that they're willing to supply us with water to keep us alive long enough to kill each other, instead.

Which probably means there's food, too. We just haven't found it yet. We aren't going to starve. That's good, I suppose. Starving to death never seemed like the most appealing option. I just hope what the Gamemakers have in store for us isn't even worse.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

The rain wakes me before Lincoln has a chance to. It's cold and sudden and hard, but, for right now, that doesn't matter one bit. It's water. And, right now, all that means is that we're not going to die of thirst. I quickly cup my hands, catching as much water as I can and drinking greedily. Lincoln does the same, grinning in the dark. "I guess that's one thing we don't have to worry about," he offers.

And he's right. The immediate danger of dying of thirst is gone. Just because it's raining now, of course, doesn't mean that it will keep raining. If we only had a way to store some of the water. But we don't have anything. Unless.

I glance up at Lincoln, wondering if I should suggest what I'm thinking. It's dangerous. But it's not any more dangerous than _not_ having water for the rest of the Games. I stand up, motioning outside our little hideout. "Weapons pile. Might have something. Store water – if we could…"

Lincoln nods. No one will want to keep moving in the rain. Most likely, the rest of the tributes are huddled somewhere, grateful for the water but not really interested in going anywhere in the dark and the rain. "Okay, then," Lincoln agrees. "Let's go look."

Carefully – and a bit clumsily in the dark – the pair of us climb the slippery wall. It's slow going, and each of us falls a few times, but we finally make it to the other side. Carefully, we head back in the direction of the clearing. I don't know exactly what I'm hoping to find, but maybe there's some sort of container. And, if nothing else, we can pick up a weapon or two…

Slowly, we creep back into the clearing. It seems empty. But that doesn't necessarily mean that it _is._ Lincoln's eyes are wide as we take one step closer, then another. Finally, I put a hand on his shoulder, tapping my chest with the other. "First. I'll go first."

I'm not really sure what it is that urges me forward. Every instinct is screaming at me to run back the way I came. But we made it this far. If there was someone in the clearing – if someone really wanted to attack us – wouldn't they have shown themselves by now?

Still, I'm looking around frantically as I make my way towards the pile of weapons in the center. Most of them are simply lying there on the ground, without any sort of container. But, finally, I see what I want – a quiver of arrows lying at the edge of the pile. But it's not the arrows I'm interested in. I wouldn't have the first idea what to do with a bow even if I took one. But the quiver – we could use that to hold water.

By the time I pick it up, Lincoln has mustered the courage to join me. I have to admit, I'm impressed. He quickly pockets a few of the smaller knives, and I do the same. I also choose a small coil of rope. Maybe it's not much, but it's easy to carry, and it might come in handy. And it seems like a better option than trying to carry off a few swords or axes.

Just as we turn to head back to our hiding place, however, Lincoln grabs my arm. "Did you hear that?"

No. I didn't hear anything. Whether that's because of my bad ear or because the rain is pretty loud by now, I'm not sure. Either way, I don't hear what he does. But I do see it.

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

It looks almost like a cat – but a lot bigger. Some sort of giant cat, slowly slinking its way towards us. It's pitch black – hard to see in the dark. But its eyes – its eyes are glowing. "A mutt," I whisper.

"What?" Maverick asks. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't know about the terrible creatures the Capitol scientists cooked up in their labs during the war. He's from District One, after all. Maybe they managed to avoid having any mutts released in their district.

Not that there were any mutts running wild around Three, either. No. We made them – our scientists. Forced into submission by the Capitol. Scientists like my parents. It's a bit ironic, maybe. My parents helped create mutts just like this – designed to terrify and slaughter innocent people. And now I'm going to be killed by one.

No. No, I'm not going to die here. Not going to be killed by some stupid mutt. I reach into my pocket for one of the knives I just chose, but then I think better of it. Knives aren't going to do us any good against this thing. "A spear," I whisper to Maverick as I reach down to grab one. "Get a spear." We need something with a long reach. We can't afford to let it get close. One bite, or even one swipe from its claws, and we could be dead.

To my relief, Maverick listens. Okay. Two spears. Two spears against a mutt. Still not much of a fight. What's it waiting for?

Slowly, the mutt circles around to the other side of the clearing. Maverick and I take a step away. The mutt takes a step closer. Okay. Maybe it doesn't want to kill us. Maybe it's herding us. But herding us where?

It doesn't matter. It's clear what happens if we don't go where it wants. "Follow me," I whisper, taking a step farther away from the mutt. It's blocking the exit that would lead to our hiding place. So we'll just have to leave a different way. Maverick says nothing as he follows me out of the clearing, with the mutt pacing slowly about a dozen yards behind us. He's content to follow my lead.

I just wish I knew where I was leading him.

* * *

 **Leopold Royalle  
** **District Three Escort**

Well, that's that. The little twerps are as good as dead. Not that that's much of a surprise. If the panther doesn't get them, it'll herd them towards another tribute or two, and then they'll be dead. They're armed, yes, but they clearly have no idea how to actually use those spears. The best they can hope for now is that their deaths will be quick, that they'll give the audience a good show.

Of course, that's the best most of the tributes can hope for. There are a few that have potential, but the rest … pathetic. Just a bunch of frightened teenagers running for their lives.

That's not what most of us expected when the Games were announced. We thought – or, at least, I thought – that the Capitol would have some way of choosing … well, _better_ tributes. Older, stronger tributes. Tributes like Gardenia even Icho and Crescent. Tributes who actually stand a chance.

Oh, well. I suppose it'll come down to the ones like them eventually. The tougher ones. They just have to weed out the weaker ones first. Narrow the field. That's all this first part is, maybe – getting rid of the ones who don't really have a chance. Tributes like Felicity who are stupid enough to risk their lives just trying to reach an ally. Tributes like Horario who would rather try to escape the arena than fight. Tributes like Aldous who would rather save a life than take one.

But, eventually, they'll all be gone, and we'll be left with the real contenders. The tributes who want to live – and who are willing to kill for it. The ones who actually stand a chance in a fight. The ones who deserve to come out alive, and who aren't just going to wait and hope for victory. The ones who are willing to stand up and claim it.

* * *

 **Just a quick little note to say that school is starting soon, but we'll try our best to keep updating regularly.**

 **Also, there was a suggestion that we put some sort of death recap at the bottom of the chapter. We thought about that back when we started the Games, but decided against it for two reasons. First, it makes it way too easy to just skip to the bottom of the chapter to find out who died, and that's something we don't want to encourage. ;) Second, if it's really _that_ hard to keep track of who's dead by reading the chapter, we're doing something wrong. Please let us know if that's the case.**

 **Anyways, just felt like we owed you a little explanation for why that's not happening. We know that quite a few SYOT authors do it, and there's nothing wrong with that. It's just not something we felt was necessary.**


	25. Middle Ground

**Middle Ground**

" _You win or you die. There is no middle ground."_

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

I feel like one of my parents' lab rats – stuck in a maze I have no control over. Well, if the rat was being chased by a giant black cat. And had to carry a spear that was quickly getting to be way too heavy. And if there were two dozen other rats, and only one could make it out of the maze alive.

Okay, maybe it's not such a great metaphor. That doesn't change the fact that the cat mutt that's following us could kill us at any minute. Are the Gamemakers just toying with us? Waiting for the right minute to strike? Or do they have something else in mind? Are they leading us somewhere? And, if they are, is it somewhere we want to go?

Not that we have much choice. Go where the cat wants, or turn around and fight it with ours spears – those are the choices. So we keep trudging onward in the dark, despite the fact that we've had little sleep, and the rain is still coming down hard. Harder than it was at first. We're cold. Wet. Tired. But that's better than being dead. And dead is what we'll be if we stop.

Suddenly, without warning, the path ends. It curves to the left a little, but then stops. I freeze. Maverick freezes. The cat doesn't. It's getting closer. Closer. I can hear it growling.

No. No, that's not the cat growling. And it's not the rain. Not thunder. It's snoring. Someone is nearby – just on the other side of the wall. And they're _snoring_.

Not their fault, I suppose. I'm not even sure whether I snore. Maybe I do. But I hope that if I started snoring in the arena, Maverick would wake me and say so. But maybe the snoring tribute doesn't have anyone with them. Or maybe they're both asleep.

I grip my spear tightly, but my arms are starting to get tired. It's thin, but it's still pretty heavy. But it's my only defense as the cat creeps closer. Closer. Waiting for something.

Waiting for us.

Oh.

It hits me in an instant. Why we're here. Why the cat herded us here. I glance over at Maverick. Maybe he can't even hear the snoring – not with his bad ear, and the rain. Or maybe he just hasn't put it together yet: why we're here, what the Gamemakers want. He won't have time to – not before the cat reaches us. I have to do this, or no one will.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

I don't even have time to ask what he's doing. Before I can do anything, Lincoln has pointed his spear away from the cat. At the wall of the maze. With as much force as he can muster, he stabs the wall. Stabs _through_ the wall. Through the leaves and the branches that make up the wall of the maze. Maybe he was looking for a good spot. Maybe he simply got lucky. Either way, the spear goes through.

And hits something on the other side. Or, rather, some _one_ , because the next thing I hear is a scream – loud and shrill and startled. Lincoln yanks his spear out of the wall, the end dripping wet with blood. Both of us back away, just in case whoever's on the other side decides to try the same trick.

But they don't. They're probably too worried about the blood. There's a lot of it – even on the spear. I glance around frantically, waiting to see if anyone's going to climb over the wall to attack us. But no one tries. For a moment, I can hear voices – but, over the rain, I can't tell what they're saying.

Then Lincoln grabs my hand. "Let's go," he whispers.

And, to my surprise, I see that we can. The mutt is gone. It must have slunk back into the darkness somewhere. I squeeze Lincoln's hand tightly. He squeezes back, his hand cold and clammy. Maybe it's the rain. Maybe it's the fact that he just stabbed somebody. Somebody who could be dying right now.

I have to admit, there's a part of me that didn't think he would have it in him. But he was the one who figured it out – that there was someone nearby, that the Gamemakers were using the mutt to herd us in the right direction. I thought they had simply left the mutt to prowl around the weapons pile, make sure nobody stole anything after the start of the Games. But Lincoln, of all people, figured out what the Gamemakers really wanted.

Because that's what they want, of course – for us to kill each other. And, more than that – for us to be afraid of each other. Afraid of the arena. Because whoever was on the other side of that wall is going to be terrified now – assuming they're still alive. Too afraid to lie down and sleep, not knowing who might be on the other side of a wall.

It was a good idea. Part of me wishes I'd thought of it. I just wish I knew who was on the other side of that wall.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

I just wish I knew who was on the other side of the wall. I could climb over, I suppose – try to get a look. But they're probably long gone. And, right now, Clarisse needs me.

She was asleep when it happened. I wasn't, but I wasn't exactly watching her. We had our backs to the wall. Figured that would be safer. She was snoring, which was driving me nuts, but she seemed to be sleeping well, so I decided not to wake her. Then, all of a sudden, she started screaming, and I could see the blood.

So much blood, pouring from a wound in her side. I looked over in time to see some sort of weapon being pulled back into the wall. I bandaged her side as well as I could with what I have – which isn't much – but it's still bleeding. I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?

Clarisse grabs my hand. There are tears in her eyes. Or maybe it's just the rain. "It hurts. It hurts so much."

 _Well, yeah._ The words almost come out. What comes out instead is, "What do I do? What can I do?"

"Make it go away. Please. Please, just make it stop." She squeezes my hand harder.

I wish I could – wish I could just will the pain away. But I can't. There's nothing I can do. Nothing except try to distract her. "Just try not to think about it." But even I can hear how hollow the words sound. Yeah. Try not to think about the blood coming out of your side. Try not to think about the fact that you just got stabbed. "Go back to sleep. Just try not to snore."

Clarisse blinks up at me, startled. "What?"

I shrug. "You snore."

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

He's an idiot. A complete idiot. This is all his fault. The pain. The blood. None of it would have happened if he had woken me. If he had told me to stay awake. To stop snoring.

Because that has to be how they found us – whoever attacked me. They heard me. Heard me snoring. I don't know how over the rain, but they must have. It's the only explanation. "This is all your fault," I hiss through gritted teeth.

" _My_ fault?" He looks completely taken aback. He hasn't even put it together. "How is this _my_ fault? I didn't stab you!"

"And no one would have found us if I hadn't been snoring!"

"How is _that_ my fault?"

"You should have woken me!"

"What was I supposed to do? Never let you sleep?"

"Yes!" Part of me knows how stupid that sounds. How unfair it is to blame him. But I don't care. I'm the one who's hurt. I'm the one who might be dying. I'm allowed to say anything I want. " _Let's keep our backs to the wall, Clarisse. Then we'll be able to see who's coming._ "

"How was I supposed to know someone would come _through_ the wall?" Elijah demands.

I don't have an answer. And that just makes it even worse. He should have known. I should have known. Obviously the walls had holes in them – they're made of branches and leaves. Obviously a weapon would be able to get through. But if he should have noticed, then I should have, too.

It's not fair.

"You're useless," I grumble, closing my eyes. Stupid boy can't even stand guard properly. For a moment, I think that's the end of the argument. Good. I'm too tired to keep it up. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should just go back to sleep.

But then I hear a rustling. I open my eyes. Elijah's gathering up the weapons. He's…

"Useless, huh?" he mumbles. "Well, let's see how well you do without me."

He turns to go. He's … he's leaving. _No. Come back. I didn't mean it._ But what comes out of my mouth instead is, "Fine! Get out of here! I don't need you! I don't need anyone!"

I don't need anyone. That's what I was trying to prove, wasn't it? That I don't need anyone. That I'm not afraid.

But I am. More than ever. My side is still bleeding. I can barely move. And the only person who could have helped me is walking away. Taking the weapons – all except the knife I have tucked in my pocket. Taking any hope I have of being able to defend myself.

What am I supposed to do now?

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

What am I supposed to do now? I brush the tears from my eyes as I keep running. When I joined Aldous and Paean at their fire, I thought that maybe – _maybe_ – I could stay with them. That we could stay together, and make the best of whatever time we had left in the arena.

But any hope of that is gone now. Aldous is almost certainly dead, and Paean … I don't know. Silver wasn't really going after either of them. She was trying to kill me. Would she have stayed to finish off Paean, too? I'm not sure.

And, even if she is alive, would Paean even want me back? I ran away from Silver. I abandoned them, when I was really the only one of us who could have helped defend anyone. At least I had a spear. Aldous and Paean had nothing.

My spear. I didn't realize until now. I left it there. At the campfire. Damn it. Not that I wanted to use it again. But if Silver is still coming after me…

And I suppose that makes sense. I killed Simon. Her district partner. Her friend. Maybe it makes sense that she would target me. Maybe I should have known she would come after me. Maybe I should have been ready. Maybe if I'd been prepared, Aldous wouldn't have died.

I clench my fists as I keep running. He would have died, anyway. Today. Tomorrow. The next day. Eventually, he would have died. There was no way he was going to win. And he'd accepted that. So maybe it was better that it happened now. Not better for him, of course. But maybe it's better for me.

Because if he had lived – if the three of us had stayed together – I might have spent whatever time I had left trying to avoid a fight. Trying to forget the fact that I've killed a boy. But maybe that's not something you can just forget – no matter how hard you try. Maybe it's something I'll never be able to forget. But maybe it's something I can learn to live with – if I live long enough.

I wasn't sure I wanted to. Wasn't sure whether I even wanted to try to live with what I've done. But Aldous … he threw himself in front of Silver's knife for me. He gave his life for mine. He must have thought I was worth saving. I'm not sure what he saw in me, but if I die in the arena, then his sacrifice was a waste. And that's something I can't live with.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

I killed the wrong person. I grip my knife tightly as I keep running, trying to get far away. Far away from the girl whose friend I just killed. Because she might be coming after me. She might be trying to kill me.

It's what I would do. Hell, it's what I was _trying_ to do. I was trying to kill Vance – the boy who killed Simon. The boy from Eleven … he just got in the way.

It doesn't make any sense. Why would he want to save a boy from Two? The boy from Eleven – he fought in the war. He knows what they're like – those loyalists. He knows what they're capable of. Why would he want to save one of them?

I wish he'd been a little bit slower. I didn't mean to kill him. But it was his choice. It's not my fault he's dead. It's his own fault. He chose to save the boy from Two. I don't understand that choice, but he made it. It's his fault. His fault that he's dead. It's not my fault.

None of it is my fault.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

It's his own fault he's dead, I suppose. But I can't help looking back at Aldous' body as I leave, wondering. Wondering whether there's anything I could have done differently. Anything I could have done to save him.

But, deep down, I always knew – and so did he. He was never going to win. He wouldn't have wanted me to save him – not if it would have hurt my chances. Even if I had been fast enough – even if I had been able to reach him in time to stop the other girl from killing him – I could have gotten hurt. I could have gotten _killed_. And that's not what he would have wanted.

He would have wanted me to live. But, more than that, maybe he would have wanted me to _win._ He made me promise, after all – back during training – that I wouldn't let him slow me down. That I wouldn't get myself killed trying to save him. And I didn't. He's dead. But I'm still alive. And whether I stay that way or not … now that's up to me.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

It's nearly dawn by the time I finally wake Peter. He woke up when the rain started, but quickly went back to sleep after drinking his fill. He just looked so peaceful, I couldn't wake him. Besides, it's not like we're on a tight schedule or anything. We can stay here as long as we want, so if I wake him now, I can still get plenty of sleep before we get moving.

Especially now that we're not going to die of thirst. At least, not anytime soon. Both of us drank plenty of water. I wish we'd had a way to store some of it, but the only thing we really have is our clothes. Which is something, I suppose. They're still wet, so maybe we can wring a bit of water out of them if we have to later.

Finally, I give Peter's shoulder a shake. He's smiling a little as he rolls over. "Morning."

I can't help but smile back. "Morning. Your turn to watch."

He blinks a little, taking in the light. "You let me sleep through the night?"

"You needed it. Besides, we have plenty of time. Now it's my turn." I lie down next to him, not mentioning the other factor that played into my decision. If there's light, it'll be easier for him to see someone coming. Easier for him to keep watch. And anything that makes these Games easier – for either of us – is a good thing.

The ground is wet as I lie down, but I'm too tired to care. My eyes are closed before my head even reaches the sand.

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

It doesn't take her long to fall asleep. Not surprising, I suppose, considering she's been awake all night. It's really not fair – the fact that she stayed awake while I got to sleep through the night.

Then again, it was her choice. I didn't _ask_ her to stay awake that long. She's the one who offered to take the first watch, and I asked her to wake me when she got tired. But if she wants to be nice to me, it would be stupid not to take advantage of that.

That sounds like the wrong way to put it – like I'm taking advantage of her. Like I don't really want to be her friend. Like I just want to take advantage of her age, her skills, her protection. That's not true.

At least, I don't think it is. But now that we're in the arena … I honestly don't know. Did I agree to work with her because I like her, because I want to be her friend, or because I know she can help me stay alive? Am I just using her to help myself survive?

I lean back against the wall of the maze as the sun slowly starts to appear over the leaves and branches of the walls. I'm not really sure. I've always been able to lie well enough to keep myself alive, but at least I've known what the truth was. Or, at least, I thought I knew.

Now, I'm not sure. Not sure what I'm doing. Not sure _why_ I'm doing what I'm doing. And that … that scares me more than anything else in this arena.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I don't know if I'll ever be able to sleep in this arena. When it was dark, I didn't want to sleep because I would have no warning of what was coming. Anyone could stumble across me in the dark, even in this tiny corner of the arena. But now that it's light, the thought of sleeping is even worse. Anyone coming would be able to see me. There's no way for me to hide.

So sleeping isn't an option. Not right now, anyway. Not until I find a better hiding place. But in order to do that, I'm going to need to get moving – and quickly. I force myself to my feet and rub my eyes. I have to stay awake. I have to keep moving.

At least it rained during the night. I'm not going to die of thirst. Not yet, anyways. But I'm still hungry. I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday. I'm used to going without for a day or so, but that won't keep me alive forever. Eventually, I'll have to find something to eat.

But that, too, means I need to get moving – and quickly. Still rubbing my eyes, I make my way down the path and through the maze. Away from the voices that I heard last night. Away from the tributes who were fighting. Away from the killing, the dead bodies, the fear.

Chances are, there wouldn't be anything on the bodies, anyway. There was only one cannon during the night. Only one tribute dead. I'm pretty sure it was either Aldous or Paean, so whatever they had as far as supplies or weapons, the other one probably took them. That's what I would do.

Or, at least, that's what I would do if I had a partner. If I was working with another tribute. I made a choice during training – a choice that I thought was the right one. I chose not to look for anyone to work with. I thought the Games would be easier that way. That I wouldn't have to worry about anyone but myself.

And that's still true, I guess. But now the downside is more obvious. If I had a partner, one of us would be able to sleep while the other stood guard. I might be happily sleeping right now.

On the other hand, I could be dead. Because working with a partner only actually works if you can trust each other. Would I really be able to trust anyone enough to let them stand guard while I slept, knowing that one of us would have to die eventually in order for the other to survive? How could anyone trust each other that much?

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

The sun is beginning to rise when Kennedy wakes me. We traded watches a couple times during the night, and we both woke up when the rain began. I don't think either of us really slept well – or long – but any sleep is better than nothing.

And nothing is what I would get if I was on my own. How could anyone fall asleep on their own in the arena, knowing that other tributes could find and kill them while they slept, and they would be completely defenseless? How could they stand the thought that they could be killed without being able to do anything about it?

Then again, eventually I'll be alone. That much is certain if I'm going to survive. Eventually, Kennedy is going to have to die. But that's all the more reason why I should take advantage of having a partner while I _do_ have one. Once he's gone, the Games will get a lot harder.

Once he's gone. That's a nice way of putting it, I suppose. "Once he's dead" would be more accurate, but I don't want to think about that. Then again, I suppose he might just leave – like Vance did. Maybe once enough tributes are dead, we'll simply go our separate ways, and never see each other again.

I'm not sure if that would be better or worse. I guess it's better than seeing each other die. But if we split up, there's always the chance that we would run into each other again – as enemies. That we might end up having to kill each other. And I don't know if I could do that.

It feels strange – remembering that the thought crossed my mind last night. The thought of killing him. Just stabbing him in his sleep and being done with it. Now, in daylight, it's hard to even imagine that I thought of such a thing. But I know I did. I know I'm capable of those thoughts. Maybe I'm even capable of putting them into action. And that … I think that scares me more than the other tributes in here.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

Carina's been pretty quiet this morning. I'm not sure what I was expecting her to say. "Good morning"? "Congratulations – we survived the night"? We've been in the arena almost a full day so far. What are we supposed to talk about?

I never thought I would miss that – just talking casually with someone. I've never exactly been what you would call a people person. But every conversation Carina and I have had since we've been here in the arena – whether we were deciding which way to go or whether to go after Vance or when to stop for the night – has been tense and uncomfortable.

Maybe she's afraid of scaring me off, like I scared Vance. Maybe _I'm_ afraid of scaring _her_ off. If we leave each other now, after all, we're each on our own. And as tense and awkward as being alone with Carina is, being all by myself would be even worse.

But, eventually, I'll be alone. I'll have to be, if I want to survive this. And maybe that's the cause of the tension, in the end – the knowledge that this … whatever it is we have, this friendship, this fragile alliance … it won't last forever. It can't. Eventually, one of us is going to die. Maybe even both of us. And that … well, that doesn't exactly make for a pleasant conversation.

* * *

 **Crescent Nerine, 17  
** **District Five**

Icho's been surprisingly chatty this morning. Maybe the rain put him in a good mood. Maybe it put _both_ of us in a good mood. Whatever the reason, it's nice. It's nice to just have a simple, normal conversation – even if it _is_ about food.

"Pancakes," Icho replies when I ask what he'd have for breakfast if he had the choice. Maybe it's not a good idea to bring up the topic of food when we're both so hungry, but talking about _something_ as we walked just felt natural. And we're _looking_ for food, so maybe talking about food will keep us motivated. Or maybe I'm just so hungry that I'm starting to lose it.

"Didn't even know what pancakes were until we got to the Capitol," Icho continues. "We never had anything fancy at our house – even before the war. How about you?"

"Nothing fancy," I echo. Which is true. My family's not exactly rich, but I've always gotten the impression we had more than Icho. "My mother would sometimes make fresh bread, but…" I trail off, distracted.

"But what?" Icho presses.

I shake my head. "Nothing. It's just … it's been a while since I actually thought of her as my mother. Ever since I found out I was adopted – ever since I learned that they'd been keeping it a secret from me – they never quite seemed like my family."

Icho nods. "My mother – she left us during the war. Ran away from the fight, from my father and me. When the war ended, she tried to take me back, but … it was never the same as it was before. I rejected her. I didn't want to be part of her family. But now…"

"Now any family seems like it might be better than nothing," I finish. And it's true. Maybe my family isn't much. Maybe they're a bunch of liars. Maybe they kept secrets from me. But … they kept them because they wanted me to think I was one of them. They wanted me to _be_ one of them. That has to count for something.

Suddenly, Icho stops short. "Look!"

I look where he's pointing. Up ahead, down one of the paths off to the left, the maze widens, and the ground almost looks … green. The two of us race forward, eager. Green means some sort of plants. Plants might mean food. Food means breakfast. It's not pancakes, but it's something.

Sure enough, as we get closer, we can see that there are, in fact, plants – covering what looks like a marsh. Not that I've ever seen one up close – we don't exactly have many marshes in Five – but I heard stories during the war. Stories of marshes in Four and Ten where soldiers would hide and ambush their enemies.

Come to think of it, that's not a bad idea. This marsh could be a good place to hide. Maybe we can even make some sort of weapons out of the plants. A few of the reeds look thicker, and some of the plants have thorns. Maybe we could make some sort of blowguns.

Then I see them. Berries. On some of the plants farther out on the marsh. "Look!" I call, racing towards the plants, smiling. Finally smiling.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

She's finally smiling. To my surprise, I realize I am, too. But something still feels wrong. Something about this feels too easy. Why would the Gamemakers leave a bunch of berry bushes right out here in the open unless…

"Wait!" I call, but it's too late. One wrong step, and Crescent begins to sink. I stop short just before my feet reach the marsh. She's already too far in. Too far for me to reach.

"Help!" Crescent calls, her legs sinking deeper and deeper into the marsh. "Help me!"

I want to. But how? If I go in there to pull her out, I'm just going to get stuck, too. My eyes dart frantically around the marsh, looking for something – anything – that might help. A rope, a vine, even a long stick. But there's nothing. Nothing except those damn berry bushes she was trying to reach.

Of course that's why the Gamemakers put them there. Trying to lure us in. And it worked. It worked almost too well. I was just cautious enough. Just distrustful enough after everything I saw during the war.

But Crescent never saw the things I did. She wasn't part of the war, and now it's cost her. The marsh water is up to her waist now, and there's no telling how deep it goes. "The bushes!" I call frantically. "Grab hold of the bushes!"

She does. And, for a moment, it looks like it's going to help. But then the skinny branches she's holding onto start to break. "There's something in the water!" she calls. "It's pulling on me! Help!"

Is there really something in the water? I don't know. She could just be imagining it. It could just be the marsh water pulling her under. I have no way of knowing. But if she's right – if there's something there – then if I wade out there, too, it would get me.

I take a step back.

"What are you doing?" Crescent calls, her head barely above the water. "Get out here! Help me! Help—"

But then her head is under the water. I realize I'm holding my breath. How long can she hold hers? Seconds pass. The surface of the water grows still again. Then I hear a cannon.

Immediately, I drop to my knees. She's dead. Crescent is dead. And I didn't do a thing about it. I didn't even try. She was my district partner. My friend. But, in the end, I wasn't willing to risk my life to save hers.

She's dead. And she didn't even go down fighting. Swallowed by a damn _marsh_. Well, that's not how I'm going to go. I turn, racing away from the marsh water. Away from the berries and the promise of food. Away from the place where my friend died. Back towards the center of the arena. Back towards the weapons that I know are there.

Maybe I'm going to die here. But I'm not going to die like she did. I'm not going to drown in a marsh trying to reach food. I'm not going to starve, and I'm not going to die of thirst. I don't _want_ to die, of course, but if I'm going to, then I'm not going down alone. And I'm not going down without a fight.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

The sound of the cannon makes me jump. "Another one?" I whisper. "So soon?"

I don't know why I'm whispering. If there's anyone nearby, the chances that they'll actually attack the two of us are slim. Both of us are armed. Both of us are relatively well-rested. And, after the rain last night, at least we know we're not going to die of thirst.

So we've kept moving. East – towards the sun that's started to peek over the walls of the maze. It's been slow going, though. The sand has turned wet, and while that washed away any footprints we might have left yesterday, it makes our new footprints even easier to see.

So we've been backtracking every now and then – leaving more footprints than necessary, doubling back over our trail, making sure to drag our daggers in the sand every now and then. That way, if someone _does_ try to follow our trail, they'll think they're following a larger group.

Maybe. That's the idea, at least. But the truth is that there aren't exactly any larger groups in the arena – and we all know it. Unless some of the smaller groups banded together now that we're in the arena, of course, but the chances of that … no, the chances don't seem good. The largest group coming in was three tributes – Carina, Vance, and Kennedy – and that's probably the way it's stayed, as long as all three of them are still alive and together. If not…

If not – if one of them is dead already – then Aubrey and I are as numerous as any other group in the arena. And we're armed. In theory, we should be able to hold our own against anyone we happen to come across. But in practice … well, let's just say I hope we don't actually find anyone. Or that no one actually finds us.

And I haven't seen any other footprints – nothing that would indicate someone else is nearby. But, like I said, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. The rain last night washed away whatever footprints were left yesterday – both ours and anyone else's. We could be following someone else's exact steps, and we would never know it.

Except … I think maybe we are. We've come across a few broken twigs lying by the walls. Now, they could have fallen off in the rain, or it could have been the result of someone brushing up against them. I don't know. I'm a decent tracker – one of the things I learned while our family was hiding in the woods – but I'm used to tracking animals. Animals aren't usually making an effort not to be found.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

I glance at Colt as we come to a fork in the path. One of the paths keeps going straight for a little ways and then seems to curve off to the right. The other one heads off to the left immediately. "What do you think?"

His eyebrows shoot up immediately. "What do I think about what?"

"About the path. Which way do you think we should go?"

"I don't know," he answers quickly. "How am I supposed to know? I don't know which way we're supposed to go."

"Okay, okay, calm down," I coax. "It's not a big deal – I just wanted to know if you had a preference. If you don't, then—"

"Left," he answers suddenly. "Let's go left."

I nod. "Okay. Left it is."

I'm not sure why he's suddenly so jumpy. It's not as if anything's really changed since yesterday. Well, nothing except the fact that there are fewer of us left. But we're about as safe as we can be. There are two of us. We're armed. We've been trying to cover our tracks – make it look like there are more of us than there are.

That was his idea, actually. Sort of wish it had been mine. It's something a soldier should have come up with. But I suppose he's spent more time trying to hide than I have. Either way, I'm glad someone thought of it. Makes us feel like we're doing _something_ productive, at least, even if it's slowed us down a bit.

So before we head left, we make a few tracks down the other path. Head down it a little past the curve, out of sight, and then return walking backwards – leaving four sets of prints all together. Maybe it's not really enough to fool anyone, but it's something.

Then we head off to the left. Immediately, I'm glad we chose this path. It continues straight for quite a ways, but as soon as it curves to the right, I can see something. Trees – up ahead. There doesn't seem to be much green on them, but trees mean shade. That's not really something we're in need of now, but, later in the day, shade could be useful. And a place to hide from other tributes, which is something we can't really afford to turn down.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

I slip out of the clearing as soon as I see them – two tributes, older and well-armed. Maybe they're not looking for me, but it's better to be careful. Better not to risk a fight.

Besides, I don't really have any reason to stay. There's nothing in this clearing that I really need. I already broke off a few of the larger branches to take with me – to use as a club or a staff in a pinch. Other than that, there's nothing here. No food. No water – no more than anywhere else, at least. Nothing but a bunch of dead trees. And if it's dead trees that they want … well, they're welcome to them.

As for me, I'm out of here. The other two don't look friendly. From a distance, I can tell it's a boy and a girl – maybe the boy and girl from Ten. They didn't look too frightening during training, but they each have a dagger. If they decided to come after me, it would be two against one. Daggers against a couple sticks. Not a fight I want to have.

Not that there's really a fight I _do_ want to have. But if I can avoid this one, all the better. It's not a fight I would win, if they were really intent on killing me.

I'm not sure if they would be, of course. They don't really have any reason to want me dead. None of us do – not really. But if the cannons mean what I think they mean – if there's been one for each dead tribute so far – then people _have_ started killing each other. And I have no way of knowing who's been killed, or who's doing the killing.

And not knowing – it bothers me more than I'd like to admit. I can't help wondering about Elijah. Sure, we were never working together, but we're from the same district, after all. Is he still alive? Is he dead? Has he killed?

I don't know which is harder – imagining him dying or trying to picture him killing. Most of the district – maybe even most of the audience – probably assumed that he would have a better chance in the Games. That he would be more likely to win a fight. More likely to kill.

And I don't know if that's true or not. But I _do_ know that I'm still alive. We've been in the arena a whole day, and I'm still here. I don't know whether he can say the same. But I _do_ know that there are at least some tributes – older, stronger tributes who, on paper, stood a better chance than me – who are already dead. I've already outlived quite a few of them. And that has to count for something.

Something. But not everything. Because in order to make it out of here alive, I'm going to need to outlast a lot _more_ of them – including the two who just found the clearing where I spent the night. Those two tributes, with their knives and their daggers – I'm going to have to live longer than them. Maybe I'll even have to kill them. But not right now.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

The cannon wakes me with a start. I sit up immediately, looking around for any other tributes. Anything or any _one_ who might be here to attack me.

Silly, of course. If someone _were_ attacking me, I'd be dead by now. That cannon would have been mine. I was asleep, with no way to defend myself. If anyone found me, I would be a goner.

But what choice did I have? I had to sleep eventually. Might as well be now. But I doubt I'd be able to get back to sleep now even if I wanted to. The cannon startled me, and now my adrenaline's pumping. Urging me to get up and do something.

I should look for food. I have plenty of water here at the lake, but no food. The lake's not deep enough to have any fish in it – more like a small pond than a lake, really. So no food there. There doesn't seem to be anything else growing in it, either. Just water. Which is good, but it's not enough to keep me alive forever. Eventually, I'll have to do something.

* * *

 **Athena Lancaster  
** **District Ten Escort**

Eventually, they'll have to do something. Aubrey and Colt – they can't just keep wandering around forever. Do they realize how close they were to finding the girl from Twelve? They already passed up a chance to fight Clarisse and Elijah.

And maybe that was the right choice. That fight would have been two against two. Even if they won, either of them could have been injured. And being injured this early in the Games – like Clarisse, Gardenia, or even Peter if you count being bitten by a snake – isn't a good thing. They've managed to stay away from trouble.

But they can't avoid trouble forever. The little girl from Twelve would have been a perfect target. Or, at least, an easy target. Are those two the same thing? I don't know. Part of me feels sorry for her. She shouldn't be here. Maybe none of them should.

But since they _are_ here, then I want to bring either Colt or Aubrey home. Maybe I've gotten more attached than I should have. After all, Aubrey was a soldier. A rebel. I should want her to die for what the rebels did during the war. But looking at her now … she's just a kid. They're all just kids. And Colt – all he wanted was to avoid the war. He's still trying to avoid the fight. But how long will they be able to avoid it?

* * *

 **Well, what do you know. School started this week, and we managed to finish a chapter, anyway. Aren't you proud?**

 **Also, thanks to everyone who voted in the poll. From the look of things, escorts are the people (besides the tributes) that you want to hear the most from, followed by the tributes' families. So that's what we'll do - an escort an occasional family member.**

 **Our new poll on my profile is asking for who you'd like to see make it to the final six. For anyone who's wondering, six is mostly an arbitrary number we chose because it seemed a little late to ask about the final eight (since that would be almost half of the remaining tributes) and a little early to ask about the final 3 or 4. So six it is. Let us know who you'd like to see! (The poll won't determine who makes it that far, but it lets us know which tributes you're enjoying.)**


	26. I Didn't Know

**I Didn't Know**

" _I didn't know I was going to kill … but I had to do something."_

* * *

 **Clarisse Richardson, 16  
** **District One**

I didn't really expect Elijah to leave. How could he just leave me like this? Sure, what I said wasn't exactly nice. But I didn't mean it. Not really. He's not useless. He just made a stupid mistake.

I guess I know a thing or two about making stupid mistakes. Yelling at him was a stupid mistake. Not thinking about the fact that someone might be able to stab through the wall was a stupid mistake. And maybe … maybe volunteering for the Games in the first place was a stupid mistake. But do I really deserve to die here, abandoned and alone, because of a few mistakes?

No. No one does. None of us deserve to be here. Even those of us who were stupid enough to think that volunteering was a good idea, like me and Maverick. I wonder if he's still alive, if he's managed to survive whatever stupid mistakes he's made. I wonder if he and Lincoln are still together. I hope so. No one should have to die alone in here.

I close my eyes again, trying to block out the pain. Maybe it's my own damn fault I'm alone. Or maybe … maybe he would have left anyway. Maybe my words were just an excuse. Maybe he just didn't want to be here when…

When I die. There's no way around that now. At least, none that I can see. Despite my best attempts to stop the bleeding, blood is still seeping onto the sand. It's only a matter of time before I've lost too much. I'm already starting to feel a bit lightheaded, and the air feels a bit too cold. It was warm yesterday. I wish it was warmer now.

I roll over a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. But there's no such thing as a comfortable position when there's a gaping hole in your side. Maybe if I can get to sleep, it won't hurt as much. Maybe when I wake up, this whole thing will be a dream. The wound. The arena. The war. Maybe I'll wake up and I'll be home with my mother and Zach, and my father will be alive.

Right. Yeah, that's not going to happen. Right now, I'd settle for Elijah coming back. At least then I wouldn't be alone.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

I can't go back. Part of me wants to, but I can't quite force my feet to turn around and go back to where I know Clarisse is waiting for me. What good would it do? I saw the amount of blood she lost. She's probably going to die. If she isn't already dead.

Dead. The word seems a bit more real now. Even when we saw the bodies around the clearing after the Games began, it was still hard to imagine the same thing happening to one of us. The people who died at the start of the Games died because they decided to charge in and fight – or because they were unlucky enough to get caught in the middle of the fighting.

Clarisse and I – we weren't fighting anyone. We were just trying to sleep. We never even had a chance to defend ourselves. I assumed that, as long as we were armed, the two of us would stand a chance in a fair fight.

But this isn't a fair fight. Maybe I should have known that from the start. There's no part of this that's been fair. Forcing children to pay for the districts' actions against the Capitol isn't fair. Throwing twelve-year-olds like my district partner Tullia into a fight with eighteen-year-olds like me isn't fair. Nothing else about the Games has been fair. So why should I expect death to be fair?

And why should _I_ be fair in return?

If I wanted to be fair, I would go back. I would help Clarisse. Try to nurse her back to health, give her the best chance I can. That would be fair. That would be kind. Two things I can't afford to be.

Because as much as I might want to pretend that I left because of what she said, that's not really the truth. I left because she was going to die. Because I'm better off alone than with a partner I have to take care of and look after. Because if I stayed, I would spend the Games trying to protect her, trying to keep her safe, when I should really be worried about myself.

So I left. And I'll have to live with that. But I think I can. I'll _have_ to. Because in order for me to live, she needed to die, anyway. Sooner or later. Somewhere. Whether I was there or not. So I'll live with it. I _can_ live with it. Because living with it means I get to _live._

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

If there was anyone in this clearing, they're probably long gone – and I can't really blame them. There isn't much here. Just a cluster of dead trees and bare, branchy bushes. I'm about to suggest that we move on and try to find somewhere better to rest when Colt points up at one of the branches, his voice trembling. "I think there was someone here."

I look where he's pointing. Sure enough, some of the branches seem to have been broken off. I glance around quickly. If someone _was_ here – if someone is _still_ here – then we could be in danger. Have we just walked into a trap?

But I don't see anything. And there's not really anywhere to hide. Colt and I check behind every tree, in every branch, around every bush. There's nothing. No one. If there _was_ someone, they must have left before we arrived.

Or _when_ we arrived. Maybe they saw us coming and decided to leave. I suppose that makes more sense than staying to defend a few dead trees and bushes. I glance over at Colt, who's pacing quickly, fingering his dagger. For a moment, I think he might bolt from the clearing.

But then he heads over to one of the thinner trees and begins whittling away at the bark. Little by little, he peels away the outer layer. I take a few steps closer, curious. Colt shaves away a few more pieces of bark, then tosses one to me. I stare at it for a moment, confused. But then he takes another and puts it in his mouth.

I do the same. The bark is rough and chewy. It's certainly not very filling. But it's something. I take a seat by Colt and begin whittling away with my own dagger. At least we aren't going to starve.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

It feels good to be doing something useful. To have a good idea. When I decided to team up with Aubrey – and especially after finding out that she used to be a soldier – I was worried that I wouldn't be able to pull my own weight. That I would end up relying on her once we were here, in the arena. In the Games.

I'm glad I was wrong. It feels good to be contributing. To be helping someone. The fact that we're helping each other survive – it feels right. It almost feels like I'm back in the woods during the war, hiding from the soldiers, helping my family survive.

Except there was more to eat in the woods. The bark, along with the rainwater from last night, may keep us from starving for a few days or so, but it won't be enough to keep us alive forever. Still, this is as good a place as any to rest for a little while. Better than most. There are only a few entrances to the clearing. We'll be able to see anyone coming. If someone tries to attack us, we'll have an advantage.

There's still a part of me that hopes it won't come to that. That we won't have to fight – at least, not for a good long while. I'd much rather be using my dagger to carve away at a tree than to attack another person. Stab another person. Kill another person. I'd much rather be using it to keep myself alive than to kill someone else.

But I can't shake the thought that, eventually, those two will be one and the same. That, at some point, I'll have to kill in order to survive. That I can only leave this arena if everyone else is dead.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

I'm not sure how much longer I can keep running. My heart is pounding. I can barely breathe. But I don't dare stop. Not yet. Not until I'm sure she won't catch me.

Because Silver is still behind me somewhere. She has to be. Now that it's light again, she'll be able to see my footprints. But I don't dare stop to try to sweep them away. Not until I'm sure I've put enough distance between the two of us. She has a weapon. I don't. That puts me at a disadvantage.

But being exhausted – wouldn't that put me at a disadvantage, too? I clench my fists as my legs finally start to slow a little. I can't keep going like this forever. But neither can she. I just have to keep moving a little faster than she can.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

I just have to keep moving a little longer than he can. Vance's footprints leave a clear path in the sand for me to follow. It's only a matter of time before I catch up to him.

But I can't keep moving like this forever. Even if I catch him, what good will it do if I'm too tired to fight? I don't think he has a weapon, but what do I have? A whip and a knife. He's bigger than me. If he manages to get either of my weapons…

There's another option, of course. I could simply stop. Give up the chase. I'm the one who's chasing him; there's nothing saying I _have_ to continue. Nothing except my pride. I told myself I would kill him to avenge Simon. Maybe even to avenge my family. To avenge myself against the Capitol, and against people like him who supported them.

So I can't give up. But there's no reason I have to catch him _quickly._ Finally, I slow to a walk, taking a few deep breaths. Unless it starts raining again, his footprints aren't going to just disappear. I'll be able to see where he went, regardless of how long it takes me to follow him. He can't keep running forever. Eventually, he'll decide I've abandoned the chase, and he'll stop to rest. Then I'll have the advantage when I find him. Then I'll be able to strike.

Yes. That's it. I have to be patient. I have all the time I need. What's the worst that could happen? Someone else could find him, I suppose. Someone else could kill him. But maybe it doesn't really matter _who_ kills him, as long as he ends up dead.

I clench my knife tightly – the knife that's still red with the blood of the boy from Eleven. Maybe it doesn't matter in the long run, but it matters to me. It matters now. _I_ want to be the one to kill him. My parents would want me to be the one to kill him.

Wouldn't they?

I swallow hard, forcing back the lump that's forming in my throat. My parents. They wouldn't have wanted any of this. They wouldn't want me to kill _anyone._ They never wanted any of this – the rebellion, the war, the punishment they received. They didn't deserve any of it.

But he does – the boy I'm chasing. He deserves whatever I can imagine doing to him. I finger my whip, imagining it striking his back. If I find him – no, _when_ I find him – I won't make it quick, like the boy from Eleven. It'll be slow. Painful. He'll die in agony, like my parents. Like Leo. Like Simon's friends.

It won't bring my family back. It won't fix what the Capitol did. It won't make anything right again. But maybe it'll make me feel better – seeing the light drain from his eyes, little by little. Maybe it'll bring me a little satisfaction. And right now, maybe that's all I can ask for.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

Things are going about as well as we could hope for. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. We have water – water that Lincoln and I managed to collect in the quiver we took from the weapons pile. We survived our encounter with a mutt that could have killed us without much effort. That has to mean something.

But what? What does it mean? If the Gamemakers were controlling the mutt, did they herd us towards that wall intentionally? Did they want us to kill whoever was on the other side? Is that why we're still alive – because we did what they wanted?

That makes sense, I suppose. I glance over at Lincoln, who's still shaking. At first, I thought it was because of the cold, and the rain – or maybe because of the mutt, or because he had just stabbed another tribute. There were plenty of reasons to be afraid.

There still are, I suppose. It isn't as if the mutt simply disappeared. It's still out there somewhere. The other tributes are still out there. I venture a few steps closer to Lincoln as we make our way back towards our hiding place. "You … are you okay?"

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

No. I'm not okay. Maybe I'll never be okay. There's still blood dripping from my spear. Blood that belongs to one of the other tributes in the arena. Blood that I spilled.

Nothing happened the way I imagined it. When I could actually picture myself fighting in the arena, I always assumed that someone else would be attacking us. That, if I killed someone at all, it would be because I was defending myself – not because I stabbed someone while they were sleeping.

Maybe there isn't a difference. Maybe it shouldn't matter. But it does.

But that's not the only thing that's bothering me. "My parents," I finally manage to say, my voice thin and shaky. "My parents helped the Capitol design mutts during the war. I never imagined…"

What? That the creatures my parents created might try to kill me? It's not their fault, of course. They did what they had to do in order to survive the war. Everyone did. If they hadn't helped the Capitol, they would have been killed. And me? What would have happened to me? Would they have killed me, too? Or would I have ended up on the streets like Maverick?

To my surprise, Maverick takes my hand and squeezes it tightly. "Not your fault. This – not their fault either."

I shake my head. "No. No, it's not their fault." I glance around, hoping for a camera. They have to be watching. "Mom? Dad? I didn't mean that it was your fault. I just meant…" What _did_ I mean? "I'm glad that mutt didn't kill me."

That much is definitely true. Maybe my time in the arena is limited. Maybe I'm going to die eventually. But I'm glad I haven't died yet. And I'm glad Maverick is with me. I give his hand a squeeze and correct myself. "I'm glad it didn't kill _us_."

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

As terrible as it sounds, I'm glad I'm the one who's still alive. I can't shake that thought from my head as I make my way back towards the clearing in the center of the arena. Crescent is dead. It's terrible. It's horrific. But, at the end of the day, I'm glad it wasn't me.

It could have been. If I'd been just a little less cautious, a little less suspicious, it could have been me instead. Or it could have been both of us. I could have rushed out onto the marsh, trying to save her. I could have gotten myself killed trying to save her life.

But I didn't. I put my own life first. I may not have killed her, but I _let_ her die. I stood there and did nothing while she called for help. Because I knew there was nothing I could do. There was no way for me to save her.

That doesn't make it right. Doesn't make it any easier. But I'm still alive. And it's up to me to make the most of that. To make her sacrifice mean something.

Her sacrifice. As if her dying saved my life. It didn't. We could both have lived. All she had to do was _not_ run out onto the marsh. If she hadn't been so careless, she would still be alive. In the end, it's her own fault she's dead.

At least, that's what I keep trying to tell myself. Because that makes it a little easier. It's easier to tell myself that she died because she was careless, rather than that she died because I refused to help her. Because I didn't even try to save her.

There was nothing I could have done. No way I could have saved her.

Was there?

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

It didn't take Carina and me long to decide that our best chance was to keep moving. If we had stayed in the little niche we'd found in the wall, maybe no one would have found us. But we wouldn't have found any food, either.

So we got moving as soon as we could, and we haven't stopped since. We've been walking for what seems like hours. Maybe it has been hours. There's really no way to tell. It's cloudier today, which I suppose I should be grateful for. On the one hand, it's not as hot as it was yesterday. But on the other, it makes it harder to tell just how high the sun is in the sky. Just how much time has passed.

At least we haven't had to make too many decisions about which way to go. The path has turned this way and that since we started, but it hasn't split off from the main path. Which could be good or bad. It means we won't get lost, but it also means that anyone following us will be able to find us pretty easily.

If anyone's following us. I don't know why anyone would, of course. If anyone was following us yesterday, they would have caught up to us during the night. We haven't exactly been moving quickly. So unless they're keeping their distance…

Suddenly, Carina stops short in the middle of the path. "Look." She's pointing at the ground up ahead. Footprints. Lots of them. But there's something wrong about them. Something odd…

Carina puts it together first. "The footprints. They're coming this way. Then they just … stop."

She's right. There are four sets of footprints, all of which seem to be heading in this direction. But then, abruptly, at the corner, they stop. Just stop.

Immediately, I glance at the branches of the wall nearby. Maybe they decided to climb over the wall. But none of the branches seem broken. And none of the footprints lead to the wall. They just stop. I shake my head. "This doesn't make any sense."

Then I glance over at Carina. She's smiling. "Actually, it does."

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

It makes perfect sense. In fact, it's clever. Or would have been clever, if someone had been coming from the other direction. Leave a dummy trail for a little while, then double back. It's a neat trick. Part of me wishes I'd thought of it.

But coming from this direction, it's obvious what's going on. Two pairs of tracks leading here, two pairs of tracks leading back the other way – backwards. Or maybe one person going here and back, twice. Maybe it doesn't matter which. It should be easy to avoid them. We simply follow their trail back the way they came, and keep going – rather than following whatever path they really took. It should be easy to avoid running into them.

So why is there part of me that keeps screaming that we should go after them, instead? That we should follow them. We're armed, after all. Maybe they aren't. There are some marks on the ground that could have been made by a weapon dragging in the dirt, but they could have just as easily been made with a stick by someone who wanted us to _think_ that they have a weapon. They could be completely unarmed. Defenseless.

I glance over at Kennedy, who's still studying the tracks. Waiting for me to explain. "They backtracked along their own trail – backwards. Clever, actually." He nods. "There's no telling just how far ahead they are, though. They could have passed this way a few minutes ago, or yesterday."

Kennedy shakes his head. "No, they couldn't. It rained last night. That would have washed away any footprints. Whoever they are – however many of them there are – they passed by here today. Maybe earlier today, maybe a few minutes ago. But definitely today."

He's right, of course. As long as it was raining everywhere in the arena. Kennedy glances up at me. "So what do we do?"

Why is he asking me? Am I in charge? Because I'm older, or because I figured out what the tracks meant? Or is he thinking the same thing I am – that, if they're unarmed, and if they're not expecting an attack, they might be easy prey?

Prey. My stomach starts to turn at the thought. That would make me a predator. A killer. But that's what's going to have to happen, eventually, if we're going to survive. I swallow back the lump in my throat. "I think we should follow them. If they're well-armed, or if there are actually more than two of them, we can always turn around and go back. And if not…"

I let that hang in the air. If not, it might be a good thing Vance didn't stay with us. Because the two of us might be about to become killers.

Kennedy nods, understanding my unspoken words. "Let's go."

So we do. Sure enough, the path splits around the corner – one pair of footprints continuing back the way they probably came – unless they've been walking backwards the whole time – the other heading off to our right. Kennedy flashes a smile. A smile that, if I'm being honest, is a little unsettling. Is he eager for what's about to happen? What we might do? Or is he just pretending to be?

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

It's probably time I stopped pretending to be asleep. The sun is high in the sky, and the wet sand beneath me is starting to dry. I didn't sleep particularly well, but that's not going to change anytime soon. Not until I'm exhausted enough to ignore the itching, grating sand that's getting into everything.

Slowly, I sit up, and I'm met by a smile from Peter. "Good morning."

Morning. Is it even morning still? With the sun hidden behind the clouds, it's hard to tell. But at least that means it isn't quite as hot as it was yesterday. Peter opens his mouth, as if he's about to say something more, but then closes it again. I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

Peter hesitates. "I was thinking, and … I have an idea."

"About what?"

"About how to find some food."

So far, so good. So why wouldn't he want to bring that up? "What is it?"

"It might be a bit … dangerous. But I don't think the snake bite hurt me, so…"

The snakes. He wants to go back to the clearing and … what? Raid some more snake nests? Try to kill a snake or two? Hope they're edible? None of those sound like good ideas. Those eggs were pretty tiny, and even if the snake wasn't poisonous, that doesn't mean it's good to eat.

But what other choice do we have? I haven't seen anything that looked like food. The rain last night means we won't die of thirst, but, eventually, that'll do nothing to stop us from starving to death. Finally, I manage a reluctant nod. "What's the plan?"

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

It's not much of a plan, really. And it hinges on something I'm not sure we'll be able to do now that everything in the arena is wet. "The trouble is getting the snakes out of their hiding places when _we_ want them to leave, rather than being surprised," I explain. "I thought that maybe we could smoke them out, but…"

"But everything's wet," Sienna finishes, spotting the obvious flaw in the plan immediately.

I nod. "But it'll dry out, won't it? The sand's already starting to dry up. How long before the rest of the arena does, too?"

Sienna nods. Eventually, everything will dry out. As long as it doesn't rain again. Funny – I never really thought I would find myself hoping it _doesn't_ rain. But we got plenty of water last night. Food is quickly becoming a different story.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

I'm going to have to find some food soon. Between the rain last night and the pond I found, I'm not exactly short on water, but food … eventually, that'll become a problem. And sooner rather than later.

So I'll have to leave soon. I'll have to leave the pond and the hiding place I've found. The thought of that scares me more than I'd like to admit. Here, I'm relatively safe. There's water, and there's only one way in or out. If I leave, I'm vulnerable – at least, until my leg heals. But it's going to take longer to heal than it would take me to die from hunger, I'm pretty sure. And I'll probably heal faster if I'm well-fed. I think.

I can't hide a grimace as I force myself to my feet. Who am I kidding? I don't know the first thing about healing injuries. What I _do_ know is that my stomach is starting to ache. I haven't eaten since yesterday. Early yesterday. I've never gone without food for this long before. I've never _had_ to.

It's almost funny. I went into the arena assuming that the weaker, scrawnier kids would be at a disadvantage. That those of us who were healthy, fit, and well-fed would have the odds on our side. But now … now everything seems to be turned upside-down. If I was _used_ to feeling this hungry, maybe I could stand it for a bit longer before striking out to find food. Maybe I would even know where to look. As it is, I don't have the first idea where I might be able to find anything edible.

But one thing is painfully clear: I'm not going to find anything by just sitting here. Slowly, one painful step after another, I make my way down the path. Back the way I came. The footprints I made on the way here are gone. Will I be able to find my way back?

Of course I will. And if I can't … well, the Gamemakers seem to want to provide us with water, anyway. So maybe it doesn't matter whether I can find this little pond again or not. It's a good place for shelter, but there might be somewhere else in the arena that's even more advantageous. Somewhere that has both water _and_ food.

Okay. I need to stop thinking about food. Thinking about it isn't going to make any appear. I grit my teeth and continue on, wondering if any of the bramble along the maze walls is edible. Maybe it is. But am I really desperate enough to chance it?

There was an edible plants station during training. Now I wish I'd paid a bit more attention to it. Bliss and I spent most of our time sparring with the trainers, assuming that was what was going to keep us alive. But that didn't save her. And it doesn't seem to be doing me much good, either. It doesn't seem fair – any of it. But maybe that's the point.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

It doesn't seem fair. That's the first thought that hits me like a knife as I see the girl. She's lying in the sand. Blood dripping from her side despite her efforts to bandage the wound. At first, I can't even tell whether she's alive or not. But she's breathing – a little, at least. She's still alive.

But not for much longer, though – not if I leave her like this. I swallow back the lump in my throat as I inch closer. I should just leave. I should turn around and run the other way. Because I recognize the girl. District One – Clarisse. She had a partner. Someone she was working with. The boy from Twelve – where is he? Dead? Gone? Or lurking somewhere to see if anyone will attack his friend? That doesn't seem likely, but you can never be too careful.

But there doesn't seem to be anywhere he might be hiding. There's a small pond, but not deep enough for anyone to be hiding in. Closer. Closer. I can hear her breathing. It's slow. Ragged and shallow. She may not be dead now, but she will be soon.

I creep a little closer. Maybe she has some supplies. Maybe she has food. It doesn't seem right – stealing from someone who's injured. And, chances are, whoever did this to her her took any supplies she might have. But then why didn't they stay and finish the job? Why leave her like this, half-dead, bleeding out in the sand? How could they just leave her?

How can _I_ just leave her?

Okay. Okay, I have to think. I can't leave her. I can't just let her die here, alone. But, as I get close enough to see the wound, I know I'm not going to be able to help her, either. There's nothing I can do for her. I've seen wounds like this – well, on dead bodies, at least. Never saw a wound like this on a person who didn't end up dead.

Dead. She's as good as dead already, and I know it. Everyone knows it. If anyone is watching us now – and surely they are – they know it, too. She's as good as dead. Maybe she'd even be better off dead. A wound like that – it certainly looks like it hurts. Even if she seems to be sleeping peacefully now, when she wakes up – _if_ she wakes up – she'll be in excruciating pain. Wouldn't it be better to just end it?

But with what? I glance around for anything I can use as a weapon. A weapon. I never really thought I'd find myself wishing for one. I never wanted to kill anyone. But now … now it seems like the best option. Maybe even the kindest option.

Then, as if in answer to my unasked question, I see something sticking out of her pocket. Some sort of handle. The handle of a knife. My breath catches in my throat. I could take it. I could use it. There would be no one to stop me. Maybe she would even want me to.

Yes. Yes, she would want me to. That's what I tell myself as I creep closer. Closer. Finally, I'm standing over her. She's practically begging me to do it. Well, at least she would be if she were awake. She would. I'm certain of it. Slowly, I reach down. I take the knife. I kneel by her side.

 _Just do it._ I reach forward. One of my hands closes over her mouth. Nothing. No response. There's no sound – not even so much as a whimper – as I drag the knife across her throat. Blood spills onto the sand. Onto my hands. Silently. So silently. The only sound is the cannon.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

The sound of the cannon echoes through the arena. Another one. Another tribute dead. That makes … what? Seven? Eight? I'm not even sure anymore. I've lost track. They're all blending together. I remember Aldous' cannon, but none of the others clearly. How many sounded before that? How many during the night? How many since then?

It's almost funny how distorted everything seems. We've only been in the arena a day, and it's already starting to blur together. At least, I'm pretty sure it's only been a day. Yes, it's only been a day. Because there's only been one night. The night when Aldous…

No. No, I have to stop thinking about that. I can't keep thinking about Aldous. He wouldn't want me to. There's nothing I can do for him. Nothing but live. Try to stay alive – for his sake. He'd want me to win.

But do _I_ want me to win?

Of course I do. Why wouldn't I? Living just seems miserable now because I'm wet and hungry. And I _am_ hungry. Hell, it's been more than a day since my last meal. Of course I'm hungry. I'm going to have to find something to eat soon, or…

Or what? Or I'll starve? Will they actually let us starve? Sure, they called it the Hunger Games, but they didn't seem too eager to let us die of thirst last night. So why would they let us die of hunger, either? It stands to reason that they'll make sure we get food eventually.

But I can't count on that happening anytime soon. And I _do_ want food. I shake my head as I keep moving down the path. Maybe the plants along the walls of the maze are edible, after all. Maybe it's time to test that. What's it gonna do? Kill me?

I don't know why that's so funny. But, suddenly, it is. Suddenly, this whole thing seems like one big joke. I chuckle a little as I reach for one of the leaves off the wall. I stuff it in my mouth. Chew. Swallow. It doesn't taste bad. Of course, not all poisons taste bad. The leaves are something I don't recognize, but that doesn't mean much. Not many leaves in District Six, outside the ones we use in medicine. And the ones we smoke. So I can tell you these leaves aren't good for healing folks or for smoking. That doesn't narrow it down much.

But I'm not dead yet. I suppose that counts for something. I eat another leaf. Then another. Sure, they're not filling, but they're something. And something is better than nothing. Unless that something is poison. But if the leaves were poisonous, would the Gamemakers really line the walls with them? Why surround us with poison if they want us to kill _each other_? It wouldn't make any sense.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

It probably doesn't make sense to anyone else – how I'm still alive. Eight cannons so far. Eight tributes dead. And me – the little twelve-year-old girl from District Twelve – still alive. Not too shabby.

But now's no time to get cocky, either. There have only been eight cannons so far. Only eight tributes dead. That sounds like a lot. Maybe it _is_ a lot. That's eight people. Eight people who will never make it home to their families. Eight teenagers, dead in a little over a day. The more I think about it, the more it sounds like a lot of people.

So I have to stop thinking about it like that. Because it _isn't_ a lot. Not really. Not compared to twenty-three. And twenty-three is the number of people who have to die in order for me to make it home. Twenty-three total. Fifteen more. We're not even halfway there.

I shake my head as I make my way down the path. That's okay. It doesn't matter that the Games aren't even halfway over. What matters is that I'm still alive. I'm still okay. The other fifteen tributes – they don't matter. The only one I have to worry about is me.

* * *

 **Dr. Eve Barringer  
** **District Eight Escort**

I wasn't sure if Neblina would have it in her or not. But she made the right choice – at least as far as the audience is concerned, surely. After she finally worked up the courage to kill Clarisse, the screen cut to the audience. People were cheering. They were thrilled that a young girl from one of the outer districts had been able to kill.

Never mind that Clarisse was defenseless. That she was almost dead, anyway. That, in a fair fight, Neblina would probably have been killed, instead – or would have certainly come away injured. Thanks to Lincoln and his spear, it wasn't a fair fight.

Lincoln. Another tribute no one really expected to be able to do any damage. They were certain he was too young, too scared. Maverick caught the audience's attention – the son of two war heroes, and a volunteer – but Lincoln always seemed to fade into the background. Until now.

Just like Neblina. She's young. She's alone. She was unarmed. But now she has a weapon. She killed a tribute. She's as much a player in these Games as anyone else in the arena.

I should be proud. This is what she's there for, after all. What they're all there for. They're in the arena to fight. To kill. But it wasn't much of a fight. It doesn't quite seem fair. But maybe what's 'fair' doesn't really matter in the Games. Maybe all that really matters is what they're willing to do – what _she's_ willing to do – in order to stay alive.


	27. Confused

**Confused**

" _Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next."_

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

Dead. She's dead. It's a while before I can stand, and even longer before I muster the courage to look away from the body. Clarisse's body. Bloody and lifeless, at my feet. At my hands. I did this. I _had_ to do this. Maybe there's a part of me that even _wanted_ to do this.

Because this … this means I'm in the Games now. I'm a player. A contender. A tribute. I'm not just a girl from District Eight anymore. I'm a killer. I wonder what Amelia thinks of that.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to rid myself of the thought. I can't afford to think like that. To wonder what Amelia might think. Because I know what she would think. She would think this is horrible. And maybe it is.

No. Not _maybe_. It _is_ horrible. The blood. The sand that's quickly turning a sickening shade of red. It's horrible. It's unfair. But, as much as I don't want to admit it, it's almost … fascinating. One moment, Clarisse was alive. The next moment, she was dead.

I did that. Me. I held the power of life and death. Well, almost. I didn't have the power to keep her alive. But I had the power to decide when she would die. And that – well, it's not what I imagined. I thought it would make me feel like a monster. But, instead, I just feel … alive.

Maybe that's not so strange. There's nothing like death to make you realize just how precious life is. How much you actually want to live. I wasn't sure I wanted to, really. Not that I wanted to die, but I wasn't really sure whether I actually _cared_ whether I lived or died. With so many of us in the arena – and only one of us coming out – how could I really get my hopes up? How could I really expect to survive?

But now – now I feel as if I could survive anything. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's the fact that I haven't eaten in more than a day, finally catching up to me. But whatever the reason, I feel like I could take on the world with this knife. I feel almost … invincible. As if, suddenly, it doesn't matter whether or not anyone thinks I'll survive. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks about _anything._ I know what I can do. And I can do this.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

I can't do this. I thought I could. Thought I could just walk away. But I can't. I can't just leave Clarisse. I have to try to keep her alive – even if there's a part of me that knows it's futile. I have to try to help her. There's no way I could live with myself if…

If what? If she dies? If she's already dead? That last cannon could have been hers. But I keep walking, anyway – back towards where I left Clarisse. Because if she's going to die – and she almost certainly is – then maybe it's better if I'm there with her. If she's not alone when she dies. I just have to hope I make it back there in time.

As I round the last corner, however, something catches my eye. Someone scurrying out of sight behind a bend. Clarisse? No. There's no way she could be moving that fast – not with her wound. Someone else was here. My heart sinks as I draw closer. Close enough to see. Whoever else was here, it's too late. Clarisse is gone.

No. No, not gone. Dead. It's obvious before I even see the wound, the gash across her neck. It's obvious from the amount of blood in the sand. From the way her body is lying limp. Lifeless. She's dead. And I wasn't here to protect her.

I could have been. All I would have had to do was stay. She would still be alive. Whoever was here – whoever killed her – they probably wouldn't have attacked if I had been here to defend her. They probably didn't actually want a fight. Hell, if they'd wanted a fight, they would have found someone else to attack. But they weren't looking for competition. They were looking for a quick, easy kill.

And they got what they were looking for. I kneel down by Clarisse's body. Her eyes are still closed, as if she was asleep when she was attacked. If she was lucky, she never even woke up. I didn't hear a scream. Would I have, though? Or would I have been too far away?

I take out my own knife, gripping it tightly. It's not fair. Whoever was here, they're gone now. I could hunt them down, of course. They're probably leaving a trail. But they're armed. I have no way of knowing how many of them there were.

Slowly, I get up. Yes. Yes, I do. The footprints. There's only one set – well, one coming and one going. And mine. The other footprints are smaller. One of the younger tributes, maybe?

But that doesn't mean anything. Age doesn't really mean anything – not when I'm certain that the other person is armed. And they are. They have to be. They didn't slice Clarisse's neck open with their fingernails. They're dangerous, no matter how old they are. I shouldn't follow them.

But there's a part of me that already knows that I have to. That that's what the audience will want to see. Someone killed my friend. My ally. They'll want to see me seek revenge, even if it's the last thing I really want. What I really want is … I don't even know anymore.

I just want this to be over. I want to be safe. I want to go home. I want to live.

But, in order for that to happen, so many more people have to die. People like Clarisse, who's only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And snoring. Such a stupid thing to get a person killed, to leave them vulnerable. I can't afford to be that careless anymore. Or I'll end up just like her.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

I could have sworn this was the way back to our hideout. Stupid. So stupid. But I'm used to navigating city streets. I'm used to having _landmarks_. Buildings. Factories. Alleyways. Here, there's nothing. Nothing but green walls and brown sand. Sand, sand, sand. Too much sand.

At least the sun is finally starting to show again. So the sand won't stay wet for long. I'm not sure whether that's better or worse. Wet sand or dry sand – maybe it doesn't even make a difference. It's getting all over. My clothes, my hair, my skin. It's sticking to everything.

I'm used to being dirty, but this is different. This is itchy and uncomfortable and irritating. I don't know how Lincoln is still smiling. I mean, I'm glad we didn't get killed by that mutt, too. But not getting killed last night doesn't seem like much to celebrate now. We survived that, yes, but what about the next thing that comes along? What if the mutt comes back? Or what if we run into another tribute?

Or what if we simply starve? Sure, I'm used to going without food. I can ignore the aching in my stomach better than most of the others, probably. But that doesn't mean that I'll survive forever. I keep looking for anything that might be edible, but, aside from the plants growing along the walls, there doesn't seem to be much.

"Damn it," Lincoln mutters as we meet another dead end. The second one so far. It feels like we've been going in circles. He shakes his head. Maybe he really is as frustrated as I am. Maybe he's just better at hiding it.

Instead of turning back, he starts climbing the wall. Immediately, I do the same, slinging the quiver of water over my shoulder. Why double back again when we can climb over? It's a little bit harder with our spears, but we finally manage it. But climbing down – that's going to be harder. I glance at Lincoln, who shrugs. "Drop them, then climb down?"

That doesn't seem like a good idea. But I don't have a better one. Lincoln and I drop our spears on the other side. But, before we can climb down, I see something. No, some _one_. Coming this way along the path. "Down!" I hiss, and Lincoln and I both lie as flat as we can against the top of the wall.

A boy comes into view. The boy from Two. Vance. He's jogging along as quickly as he can, but he's clearly exhausted. Maybe he's tired enough to pass right by us. Maybe he won't even see us.

And maybe he doesn't see us. But he _does_ see the spears.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

Two spears. Just lying there, at the bottom of the wall. For a moment, I'm too tired to even put it together. Then I look up, and I see them. Two boys, perched atop the wall – almost like birds. It might even be comical, if they didn't look about ready to jump down, attack, and reclaim their spears. Or maybe it's just my imagination.

I take a step closer. Reach for one of the spears. Maybe I should just leave them. But Silver is following me. And she's armed. Maybe I can just take one – leave the other for them. Maybe if they knew…

"Please," I gasp, watching the two of them carefully for any sign of movement. "I just need one of them. Someone's following me."

It's the younger boy – the one from District Three – who speaks up. "Then you'd have a better chance if you had some help."

Help? From them? Are they offering to help me? Or do they just want to make sure I don't take their spears and run? "Why would you want to help me?"

"There's something chasing us, too," the boy answers, as if that's supposed to make it all better. "The three of us would have a better chance together."

But it's the other boy – the boy from One – who starts to climb down the wall. I wrap my hand around the spear, in case he has some other weapon. But if he does, he doesn't reach for it. He reaches the bottom of the wall, then takes a step closer, his hands open at his sides. "Your family," he stammers. "Loyal – they were loyal. My parents … war – they died. They would want…" He concentrates for a moment, then finally manages to put together a complete sentence. "They would want us to help each other."

I take a step forward. Is he right? We should trust each other because we're both loyal to the Capitol? Loyal to our districts? Maybe that makes sense. After all, who's chasing me? Silver, one of the rebels. Maybe we loyalists should stick together.

I grip my spear. Aldous wasn't a loyalist. He was a rebel, and not exactly shy about mentioning it … and Silver killed him, anyway. I guess that just goes to show how untrustworthy rebels are. And what about Carina? During the interviews, Noelle mentioned that her sister had attacked a Peacekeeper. Maybe it's a good thing I left her and Kennedy when I had the chance.

I take a step closer to the boy – Maverick, I think. He volunteered – I remember that. I thought, after killing Simon, that these Games … that they were my fault. My family's fault, for supporting the Capitol. District Two's fault – and other districts, like One, that remained loyal. Maybe they are. And maybe … maybe the best thing we can do is own that.

I drop the spear and hold out my hand. Maverick shakes it, then motions to the other boy to climb down. Together, the three of us gather up the weapons and keep moving. I can't help smiling a little. If Silver is still following us, she'll never know what hit her.

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

I can't help suddenly feeling like the odd man out. Like I'm just tagging along now – tagging along with two Capitol loyalists. I suppose I should be grateful that Maverick mentioned it – it stopped Vance from simply taking off with our weapons. But it also reminded me of just how outnumbered I am now.

Maybe he doesn't realize it. Maybe he thinks that because my parents helped the Capitol design mutts, that makes me a loyalist, too. Maybe he doesn't realize that they only went along with the Capitol's demands out of fear – fear for their own lives, and for mine. I've certainly never told him, and maybe I haven't even given that impression. Or maybe he simply hasn't picked it up.

Either way, he seems to be assuming that I'm one of them – that I'm happy to go along with our new ally. And maybe that's fair. I _was_ the one who suggested teaming up, after all – but _I_ suggested it with a lie. The idea that the mutt was still following us, which I'm not certain it is.

In fact, I'm pretty certain it _isn't_. If the mutt were actually chasing us, it could have caught us by now. Easily. Or it could simply have not left in the first place. It had us backed into a corner. It could have killed us then. But that had never really been its intention – the Gamemakers' intention. They'd wanted us to attack whoever was on the other side of the wall. Once we did that, the mutt was finished with us.

So I lied. I thought the idea that we were both being chased – by someone or some _thing_ – might give us some common ground. But it was Maverick who found some _real_ common ground. It just wasn't common ground that we _all_ share.

Maybe that shouldn't matter. Maybe it _doesn't_ matter, as long as I go along with the idea that I'm a loyalist, as well. But I can't help wondering…

My thoughts, however, are interrupted by a shout from Vance. "Look!" He's pointing up ahead. There's something up there. A clearing. And it looks like there's something green…

As we get closer, though, my heart sinks again. The green is coming from a cactus. Plenty of them, actually – some of them bigger than me. Vance shakes his head, but Maverick's smile hasn't faded. He takes one of the knives out of his pocket and digs it into the nearest cactus, careful to avoid the spikes. Slowly, he carves out a piece, takes a bite, then hands it to me.

To me. Not to Vance. Maybe it's a little thing, but my smile returns as I take a bite of the cactus. Then another. It's chewy, but also juicy and filling. Soon, the three of us are eating all that our stomachs will hold. Vance smiles a little. "I'm glad I found you."

And, to my surprise, so am I. If we hadn't found Vance, there's no guarantee we would have headed in this direction after retrieving our spears. We might have gone back the way he came from – maybe even run into whoever's chasing him. Instead, there are three of us. We're armed. And we have food. Maybe this isn't so bad, after all.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

The footprints don't make any sense. I was following Vance's trail – or, at least, I was pretty certain I was. But now there are three sets of footprints, instead. Or, at least, it looks like there are. It's getting harder to tell in the fading light. Maybe he simply backtracked and then retraced his trail. But how would he have had time to do that? I can't be _that_ far behind him.

Or maybe … maybe he's not alone. Maybe he found someone else. But the other tracks – they just _start_. They don't seem to be coming from anywhere. Unless…

Of course. The tracks start by the wall. Someone climbed over the wall. Maybe before Vance was here, maybe after. There doesn't seem to have been any sort of struggle, so probably not at the same time. Unless they're working together. He had allies, after all – didn't he? The boy from Eight and the girl from Three. Maybe they found each other again.

Come to think of it – why was he with the boy from Eleven and the girl from Six in the first place? Were they _all_ working together? I grip my knife tightly. Suddenly, I'm not in such a hurry to find Vance. If I'm outnumbered…

But I can't give up now. Simon wouldn't want me to. My family wouldn't want me to. They'd want me to kill those responsible for their deaths – and everyone who supports them. I can't touch the Capitol – not yet – but I can do this.

I can do this.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

I can do this. That's what I keep trying to tell myself as I take one step forward, and then another. I can do this. I'm supposed to be better than this. Stronger than this. I'm a trained soldier. I'm not supposed to show this sort of weakness.

It's not even the wound – not really. Sure, it hurts, but that's not the worst of it. The worst part is the hunger. Right now, I'd cut off my whole leg if I thought it meant food. Maybe not actually. But it doesn't sound like such a bad idea right now – solve two problems at once. And replace them with a bigger one, of course. But that would be a problem for later.

Finally, I stop, leaning back against the wall of the maze. I'm not thinking clearly. Obviously. I'm too hungry, too tired, and in too much pain to really think clearly. But, even so, maybe the fact that I _know_ I'm not thinking straight will give me an advantage over tributes who may not even realize they're starting to succumb to their hunger. Maybe.

Hopefully, though, I won't run into anyone – at least not tonight. Because night is, in fact, starting to fall. I grip my sword tightly as I settle back against the wall. Tomorrow. I can find food tomorrow. I'll have to. Or else…

No. No, I can't think about that. _Won't_ consider that a possibility. I'm not going to die in here. And I'm certainly not going to _starve_ to death. If I'm going to die, then I'm going to go down fighting. A good death. A soldier's death. Obviously, I'd rather not die at all, but if I'm going to…

I clench my teeth as I stare up at the sky. No sign of clouds tonight. No sign of water. If I _am_ going to die, then why the hell would it matter _how_ I die? If I die, who's going to care? My father, maybe. But either way, I'd be dead. Either way, I wouldn't be coming home. Either way, he'd be alone. I can't let that happen. I _won't_ let that happen. To either of us.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

I've only just closed my eyes when the pinging noise startles me awake. Aubrey offered to take the first watch, but I should have known better than to think I'd be able to sleep – at least not yet. Sure, we're about as safe as we can be in this clearing. But it just seems a bit too … large. A bit too open. In the dark, will we really be able to see who's coming?

We could leave, of course. But what are the chances that we'd be able to find anything better – especially in the dark? No, better to tough it out for now. For tonight at least. But tomorrow, I might suggest that we leave. There's not much here, anyway. Sure, there's the bark – which hasn't killed us yet, so apparently it's not poisonous – but we can always carry some of that with us. Other than that, there's really nothing here.

That pinging noise just won't stop. Finally, I sit up, glancing around. Aubrey's doing the same. Where is it coming from?

Then, all of a sudden, she points up. At the sky. No, at something floating _down_ from the sky. Some sort of parachute – a small one – attached to some sort of parcel. It lands at our feet, and Aubrey and I both stand up, taking a few steps back. Is it a bomb? A trap? Why would the Gamemakers want to target us?

The answer is obvious, of course. Aubrey was a rebel soldier. Why _wouldn't_ they want to target us? But, instead of backing away and insisting we leave the area, she bends down and picks up the parcel. "It's soft," she says quietly, as if a louder noise might set off whatever explosive is surely inside. "It doesn't feel like…"

Like what? Like a bomb? I suppose she would know what a bomb felt like, but that doesn't really make me feel any better. They could hide a bomb inside anything. I take a step back, remembering what happened to Memphis at the start of the Games. I have no intention of letting the same thing happen to me.

But as Aubrey slowly unwraps the package, I can't help taking a step closer. And then another. Because it smells almost like—

"Food!" Aubrey practically shouts, then immediately silences herself. Anyone could have heard us. But, right now, none of that seems to matter, because there, in Aubrey's hands, are four large, perfectly formed loaves of bread, along with a small note. Aubrey takes a seat on the ground, places the bread beside her, and carefully unfolds the note.

"What is it?" I ask, and she hands it over. There's just enough light from the moon to read what it says. _D1F, D5F, D11M._ "What's that supposed to mean?"

"D for district, I suppose," Aubrey reasons. "F for female, M for male. That means Clarisse, Crescent, and Aldous."

I can't help a raised eyebrow, impressed that she remembered their names. Maybe I should be ashamed that I didn't. After all, it's easier to think about people dying when they're just district numbers, rather than actual names.

People dying. That's it. "They're dead," I realize. "The three of them – they're dead. That's what it means."

Aubrey shakes her head. "But there are more people dead than that. What about Memphis?"

She's right. At the very least, we know he's dead. But it has to mean something. "What if it's the tributes who died today? How many cannons were there today?"

"Two."

"And one last night. Maybe they're counting that one."

Aubrey nods. "Maybe."

I turn the list over in my hands. Maybe I should feel something. Sympathy. Pity, at least. After all, that's three tributes – three _people_ – who died today, while we're still alive. But Clarisse – she volunteered. She wanted to be here. And Aldous – well, he was never going to make it out. And Crescent … I don't know. She certainly seemed like she had a chance. I remember her getting a high score during training. But I guess that doesn't mean a whole lot now that we're in here.

Nothing's the same as it was out there. But maybe that's a good thing. Because maybe … well, maybe it means that someone like me might just have a chance.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

They have food. That's the only thing I can tell as Carina and I peer silently into the clearing. I don't think they've seen us. Certainly if they had, they would have made a move. But they're too distracted by the food in front of them.

Not that I can blame them for that, of course. I suppose I'd be distracted, too, if I had something to eat. But I don't. I can feel my mouth watering just watching them. How did _they_ find food? Is there food in the clearing? There are trees. If only I could get close enough to tell _what_ they're eating.

I glance over at Carina, who's watching them just as intently. Hungrily. Greedily. She's fingering her spear. I glance down, and realize how tightly I'm gripping my own club. If we can sneak in there and grab some food, would we be able to make it out again?

Maybe. Maybe we could catch them by surprise. But they're armed – I can see some sort of weapons shining in the moonlight. But they're on the ground beside them. If we could sneak up on them.

No. No, we can't. One of them is facing this way. There's no way we could sneak into the clearing without being noticed.

Just then, Carina taps my shoulder. She has a plan. She points silently at me, then motions off to the left. Then she points to herself, motioning off to the right. Then she points to the clearing.

Split up? Attack from either side? Is that what she's suggesting? I suppose it makes sense. Each of us might have a better chance taking on only one of them. But if both of them decide to come after one of us…

Then I'd better make sure it's the right one of us.

I nod, confirming her plan. She smiles. Is she really that eager to attack them? Maybe just eager to have food in her belly. Or maybe just pretending – for the audience's sake. Trying to give them a good show. Either way, I smile back. Just a little while, and we could be eating.

Slowly, the two of us sneak through the entrance to the clearing. The other two tributes still don't see us. I head to the left. Carina heads to the right. They're still eating. Completely unaware. Once we've put enough distance between us, Carina gives me a signal that I'm certain means "charge." And she does.

But I don't.

* * *

 **Carina Ellison, 18  
** **District Three**

He's not charging. It takes me too long to realize it. By the time I realize that Kennedy is still standing there, motionless, the tributes have seen me. What's wrong with him? Did he chicken out at the last minute? Or was this his plan all along? For them to attack _me_ instead of him?

Because they do. The girl charges first, abandoning her dinner, her dagger drawn and glistening in the moonlight. The boy follows, more hesitantly. I grip my spear tightly. Too late to run. The girl has already positioned herself between me and the nearest exit. But I have a spear. They have daggers. My weapon has a longer reach. That has to count for something.

Doesn't it?

The boy circles around, his dagger shaking. He's clearly afraid. A better target. But I can't afford to take my eye off the girl, either. Soon, they're on opposite sides of me. What are they waiting for? Why don't they attack? My eyes dart back and forth between them. The two of them are just far enough away to avoid my spear. Just out of reach. But if I attack either of them, the other one could come after me. Stab me in the back. If only Kennedy—

Then I can see him. Back where the pair of tributes left their food. He's snatching up as much as he can. Running away. _Coward_. I grit my teeth. First Vance left. And now Kennedy. Some friends they turned out to be.

I should have known better. Should have known that we couldn't be _friends_ in the arena. He was using me. And I don't know which I'm more upset about – the fact that he's getting away with food that we should be sharing while I'm stuck between two tributes who are about to attack … or the fact that he thought of it before I did.

That should have been me. He should be the one here, getting tricked into attacking while I make off with the food. But he was more clever than I gave him credit for. If I ever catch up to him…

But, in order to do that, I have to get out of here alive. The girl finally takes a step closer. Closer. Daring me to strike. To give her partner the chance to attack me from behind. But will he? Would he even have the guts to?

I'll have to take the chance. Have to take _some_ sort of chance, if I want to walk away from this. I stab as quickly as I can in her direction, but she easily dodges my blow, nodding behind me. I turn to block the boy's blow, but it's a blow that never comes. He's simply standing there, frozen.

I take a step closer to the girl. Then another. She backs up a little farther. Then a little more. I swing again, and she catches the end of my spear on her blade. There's fear in her eyes. Her ally isn't going to come to her rescue – no more than mine was. It's just the two of us … and I'm winning.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

She's winning – there's no doubt about that. I grit my teeth. It's all I can do to keep myself from shouting at Colt to come help me. Maybe I should. But there's a part of me that knows it won't do any good. If he's just going to stand there, shouting won't do any good. This is my fight.

But it's a fight I'm losing. I'm not used to fighting alone. I'm used to having my fellow soldiers with me. I dodge one blow, then another, ducking beneath Carina's spear. She's starting to tire. Maybe if I got out of the way, she would just leave…

I take a step to the right, circling around. Trying to indicate that she has a clear path. She can just leave. But maybe she thinks it's a trap. Maybe she thinks I'd stab her in the back as soon as she turned to go. Maybe she's right.

Or maybe … maybe she _wants_ to fight. She's the one who attacked us, after all. Came into the clearing with her ally. He came here to steal – that much was obvious. But did she just want the food, or did she want to fight?

I dodge another blow, breathing hard. None of us _want_ to fight. But maybe she thinks we have to. And maybe we do. Maybe this is a fight that has to happen.

Suddenly, my foot catches on something in the dark. One of the tree roots. I manage to keep myself from falling over, but it's enough to give Carina an advantage. Her spear stabs forward, slicing across my arm, narrowly missing my chest. I can't help a cry of pain as I stagger backward, desperately dodging the next blow. Carina's smiling.

But then she isn't. Because, a second later, Colt is behind her, his dagger drawn. She sees him in time to turn and dodge the blow, but I seize the chance to grab hold of her spear, dropping my dagger in the process. Colt charges, his dagger slicing across her side. Carina crumples to the ground as I wrench the spear from her grasp. Desperately, she snatches up my dagger, swinging it at Colt's leg even as I drive my spear downward. Down into her chest.

Colt staggers back, but, even from here, I can tell he's not badly hurt. Little more than a graze. My arm is bleeding worse, but I'm alive. It's Carina's cannon that rings through the night, echoing through the arena. I sink to my knees, exhausted, as Colt hurries over to examine the wound. "I'm fine," I insist, but that doesn't stop him from ripping Carina's shirt into strips and bandaging the wound as well as he can.

"I'm sorry," he stammers. "I'm sorry I didn't…"

"Don't be." I clasp his hand tightly. "You did good. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead."

"But if I'd been quicker, you wouldn't have—"

"I'll be fine." And, to my surprise, I actually believe it. The cut isn't bad. It hurts like hell, but Colt's pretty handy with the bandages. I haven't lost much blood. And it's my left arm. Could be worse. _I_ could be the one lying there, dead.

Dead. Carina is dead. I killed her. _We_ killed her. Killed a girl who probably just came here looking for food. I swallow hard, fighting back everything I want to say. Every ugly word I want to shout at the Capitol.

Because she didn't want this. She might have been _pretending_ she wanted to fight, but only for the sake of the audience. Only because she wanted it to look like she was playing along. Playing their game.

The same game we're all playing. The same game _I'm_ playing, as much as I hate to admit it. Because if I wasn't playing, I would be shouting right now. Cursing the Capitol and the President and the Gamemakers for forcing us to fight. Cursing the Capitolites for going along with it – and maybe even the districts for being convinced there was nothing they could do.

But there _is_ nothing we can do. Nothing except try to survive. Slowly, Colt and I make our way back to where we left the food, prepared for the worst. Prepared to find that the boy took it all.

But he didn't. Two rolls are still sitting there, untouched. Colt shakes his head. "Why didn't he take them all?"

"I don't know." But it's a lie. I _do_ know. If he took all of our food, we would have to go after him. Hunt him down to try to get it back. But he left us enough. Enough to get by. And he took enough for himself. Enough to last him a while. He's assuming that, as long as he left us _some_ of the food, we wouldn't come after him. He's playing the Game.

And, if I'm being honest, he's playing it pretty well. Because I don't want to chase after him. Certainly not now. And, from the look of it, neither does Colt. So it looks like he's going to get away with it.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

I can't help but wonder what he's running away from so quickly. He doesn't even notice me as he passes, two loaves of bread clutched tightly in one arm, still holding a club in his other hand. What's he running from?

It takes a moment for the even more obvious question to occur to me: Where did he get the bread? It's not as if bread grows on trees. And trees – dead trees – are the only thing in the direction he was coming from. I know. I was there.

So where would he get bread? He obviously didn't make it. No wheat. No fire. Okay. Where else would he get bread?

Maybe it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter where he got it. He has it. I don't. I don't have _anything._ Almost two whole days in the arena, and I have nothing. And no hope of finding anything anytime soon. Unless…

Slowly, I start to follow. He's out of sight before long, but the path keeps going, the moonlight bright enough to show his steps. If I follow him long enough, maybe I'll catch up to him. Maybe he'll be asleep. Maybe.

Or maybe he'll have eaten the bread by then. That's what I would do. Or is it? After all, there's no telling how long it would have to last. Would I eat it all right away? Or would I try to ration it?

I clench my fists tightly. What good does it do – wondering what _I_ would do if I had food. I don't. And he does. What did _he_ do to deserve it? From the look of things, he stole it – maybe from the other two tributes I saw enter the clearing with the trees. If he stole it from them, then would it really be wrong if I stole it from him?

No. And, even if it is, would it really matter? We're here to fight each other to the death, and I'm worried about whether stealing a little food is wrong? I clench my fists. If I don't get food, I'll die. That's worse than stealing.

But first I have to find him. I take another step forward. Then another. As quietly as I can. He didn't see me the first time – he was too focused on getting away from whoever might be chasing him – but I can't count on him being that distracted forever.

And _I_ can't afford to be distracted, either. Because if someone _is_ chasing him – if someone _is_ trying to get their food back – then there's no telling what they'd do if they found me first. If they were sleeping when he took it, they might not even know _who_ has their food. They might assume _I_ do. And then…

Stop. I have to stop thinking like that. I can't afford to get carried away. I have to focus. But it's getting hard. Hard to focus on anything except the constant aching in my stomach … and the thought that, if I catch up to this boy, that aching might be eased, at least for a little while. And that's worth losing a bit of sleep over.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

The light is shining off the weapons as I enter the clearing. Okay. I made it back. Actually, that's quite a feat, now that I think about it. Crescent and I took a few twists and turns between the start of the Games and where we found the marsh. Making it back here … well, it almost feels like a fresh start. Like I'm starting the Games over, better armed and more determined.

But also a lot hungrier. I shake my head as I kneel down to examine the weapons. If they had really wanted us all to rush towards the center and fight each other at the start, they would have put some food here, too. Instead, all that's in front of me is a bunch of weapons. Spears, swords, daggers, knives – all here for the taking.

But I can't take them all. I couldn't carry that many – and what would be the point? There would be no way to use them all. I suppose if I took them, that would stop anyone else from coming back and picking more weapons. But, chances are, everyone who wants one has one by now.

Maybe not, though. After all, I didn't – not until now. I glance around. Maybe I can't take them all. But maybe I could bury them. Or move them. Hide them so that no one else who comes back looking for a weapon would be able to find one. That doesn't seem fair, but maybe it's time to stop playing fair. Anything that gives me even a slightly better chance of coming out alive is good – no matter how cruel it may seem.

Okay. So if I'm going to move them … where could I put them? I shake my head, glancing around the clearing. There are no obvious hiding places – not unless I wanted to dig a giant hole in the sand. Which I don't. But if I could find a dead end somewhere…

First things first. I choose a few knives from the pile and stuff them in my pockets. Then I pick a small hatchet and a curved blade about the length of my forearm that looks more like a farming tool than a weapon of war. Good. Maybe the other tributes will underestimate what I can do with it.

Or, at least, what I _hope_ I can do with it. Because, no matter what I choose to arm myself with, the fact remains that I have absolutely no training with any sort of weapon – at least, not beyond what I managed to pick up in the three days we had for training before the Games. Sure, I killed the boy from Six, but he wasn't exactly in a position to put up much of a fight. If I find myself facing someone who's actually armed, how much of a chance do I really have in a fair fight?

So I'll just have to make sure it's not a fair fight. I glance around, then head for one of the exits from the clearing. Now isn't the right time to figure out what to do with the rest of the weapons. I can worry about that later. Right now, food is the more pressing concern. I know where there are berries, but…

But that's too dangerous. Crescent died in that swamp. I have no reason to think I wouldn't drown, too, if I tried to go out there. But there's a part of me – a part that's growing with the aching in my stomach – that's tempted to try to find a way. It seems easier than … what? Where else would I get food? We've been in the arena almost two days now, and that's the only food I've seen.

But the other tributes are still alive – some of them, at least. They must have found food. Unless they're all in the same position I am. Is that the real point of the Games? To get us to kill each other because we just want to be back in the Capitol already and have a decent meal? But how do they expect us to fight when we're getting weak from hunger?

Maybe … maybe they haven't really thought this through. I know I didn't – not before Crescent drowned. There are so many things I hadn't thought of. So many things I wish I'd known. But it's too late now. Too late to go back and make another choice.

And maybe the Capitol's in the same position. We're in the arena now. Maybe it's too late to think of a way to provide us with food. They sent us water, sure, but they can't exactly make food rain down from the sky.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

We'll just have to hope it doesn't rain tonight. I glance over at Peter as the two of us settle in for what will probably be a long night – but hopefully the last night we'll have to endure without any food. He has a plan, but his plan will have to wait until daylight.

Maybe it doesn't _have_ to, I suppose. The bramble we've managed to collect from the sides of the walls and the bushes in the clearing are certainly dry enough by now to light a fire. Still, lighting a fire at night didn't seem like the best idea. We might as well send up a signal shouting, _Hey, look! There are tributes over here!_ Anyone who wanted to kill us would be able to follow the light straight to us.

But would they? Would they really? Are the other tributes really to the point where they would be seeking out a fight? Peter and I certainly aren't. We're just trying to find food. But if other tributes thought that our fire meant we _had_ food…

And, if I'm being honest, that's what I might assume, too, if I saw that other tributes had made a fire. Right now, I'd assume that meant they were cooking some sort of food. But maybe that's just because I'm hungry. Maybe that's because that's what I'm hoping _we'll_ be doing with our fire tomorrow – assuming nothing goes wrong.

Because there's plenty, of course, that could go wrong with Peter's plan. His plan is to set fire to the bushes in the clearing and try to smoke the snakes out – then kill a few and eat them as they try to get away from the fire. We found several larger branches to attack the snakes with, but is it really going to be enough?

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

We'll just have to hope that my plan is going to be good enough. Because it's too late to come up with anything else. Both Sienna and I are getting tired. Exhausted, really. We need to get some food – and soon. It's too late to go back to the clearing and get proper weapons to attack the snakes with. There's no guarantee we would make it there – and, even if we did, no guarantee that we'd be able to get back. We're committed now – committed to my plan, no matter how bad it might be.

Not that I _think_ it's bad. Not really. After all, the snake that I saw before wasn't very big. Even its bite didn't hurt that much. And it doesn't seem to have been poisonous. Then again, how would I know? How would I know if the aching in my stomach is from the snake's venom or simply from hunger? How am I supposed to know whether my headache is a result of having no food for almost two days now or some ill effect of the snake's poison.

I shake the thought from my head as I lie down and try to close my eyes to get some sleep. Sienna offered to take the first watch again, and I'm not exactly in the mood to argue with her. I'll take whatever sleep I can get. I'm not sure exactly how much that's going to be, with my stomach – my whole body, really – aching like this. But it's better than nothing.

And it's better than being dead. Which is what we might be soon if this plan goes wrong. If the snakes don't come out of hiding and we're left with nothing to eat. Or if they _do_ come out of hiding but there are either more of them than I thought, or the one I saw before was one of the smaller and less dangerous ones. There's always a chance, of course, that there's more than one kind of snake hiding in the bushes. Or if the fire gets out of control and burns down the arena.

Actually, that last one doesn't sound so bad. I mean, if we managed to burn down the arena – the _whole_ arena – then all of the tributes would be dead. Including us, I suppose, but that would sort of ruin the Capitol's plans to have a Victor, and that in and of itself would be rather satisfying.

But it wouldn't be satisfying for long, because I would be dead – along with Sienna. And, as miserable as things seem right now, being dead would always be worse. As long as we're still alive, there's still a chance – however small – that things will get better. That everything will work out. As soon as we're dead, instead, that chance is gone. Every possibility is gone. But as long as we stay alive, there's a chance we'll make it out of this.

But there isn't. Not really. There's not a chance that _we_ 'll make it out of this. We can't both get out of here alive – that much has been clear from the start. But we can both help each other live as long as we can. And if my plan can help both of us get food – well, all the better.

I close my eyes, silently listening to Sienna's breathing. Breathing. That's good. As long as we're both breathing, there's still hope. As long as we're still alive, we have a chance.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

These leaves aren't going to keep me alive for very long. I don't know how many I've stuffed in my mouth now, but I'm starting to get sick of the taste. And, even worse, now I'm getting thirsty again. If I was thinking last night, I would have tried to find something to store the rainwater in. But I wasn't thinking – at least not clearly. I guess there's a part of me that thought the Gamemakers would keep sending rain – that they would want to keep us from dying of thirst.

And maybe I wouldn't be so thirsty if not for the fact that the leaves are rather dry. Which makes sense, I suppose. Not much water in a leaf. And they're starting to leave a bitter taste in my mouth. But being able to eat _something_ is worth it – isn't it?

Maybe. But what good is having food if I don't have water? I wrung all the water I could out of my clothes, but that wasn't very much. It didn't get as hot today as it did yesterday, but if it gets hotter tomorrow – and if the Gamemakers don't send us any water – then I'm going to be in trouble.

Then again, the other tributes are almost certainly in the same position. It's not as if any of them would have had a way to store water, either. The only thing in the clearing at the beginning of the Games was weapons. Which are useful – obviously – in a fight to the death, but you can't _eat_ weapons. You can't drink weapons. Weapons don't actually keep you alive – they just make other people dead.

So the other tributes are probably facing the same dilemma that I am. And, undoubtedly, some of them will come to the same conclusion that I have: The fighting has to start. If it doesn't, we'll start starving to death. We'll start dying of thirst. And I don't want to die – none of us do – but if I'm going to, a quick blow from a weapon sounds like a better way to go than slowly dying from lack of food and water.

Neither option is good, of course. Both end with me dead. But if I apply the same reasoning to other tributes … then I might even be doing them a favor by killing them quickly. I'd be sparing them a slow, painful death from starvation and thirst. Maybe … maybe Silver even did Aldous a favor by killing him quickly – or, at least, relatively quickly. He was never going to make it out alive, so maybe it was better that he died sooner rather than later. Better that he didn't suffer too much before the end.

Maybe that's a cynical way of looking at things. But I can't afford to be worried about that – about whether my ideas are the right way of looking at the world. Right now, all that matters is whether or not they're going to keep me alive. Because I still want to live. And if I want to live, then everyone else in this arena has to die – sooner or later. So maybe it's better if it's sooner.

* * *

 **Titus Taveras  
** **District Two Escort**

It's sort of strange, once you think about it. If you had asked me at the beginning of the Games which of District Two's tributes would have a better chance at coming home, I would have said Gardenia – in a heartbeat. She's older. Stronger. She has training. She knows how to fight, how to use a weapon. She's a soldier. And yet…

She's still alive, of course. But Vance is in a much better position. Not only does he have a weapon, but he also has food and water. And he has two partners. Sure, they're twelve and thirteen, but the fact that they're still alive after two days in the arena has to count for something, despite their age.

Meanwhile, Gardenia has no food. She has a source of water, but that will only keep her alive for so long without another source of food. And she's injured. She's handling it pretty well, but I can't help wondering how long it will be before she cracks under the stress. The pain. The fear. She probably would have already, if it wasn't for her training. But how long is that really going to keep her alive?


	28. Heroes

**Heroes**

" _There are no heroes. In life, the monsters win."_

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I can't keep running forever. That's what I keep telling myself, but I can't seem to stop. There's a part of me that's not really sure why I'm running, but I thought … I don't know what I thought. A while ago, I thought I heard something. Footsteps, maybe. Or maybe I'm imagining things.

Or maybe there was someone – but maybe they're on the other side of a wall. Just because someone is nearby doesn't necessarily mean they can get to me. But it doesn't mean they can't, either. But it's been so long since I stopped to rest – and even longer since I've slept. I can't keep going like this forever.

Finally, my legs simply start to slow. I can't walk any more. I simply _can't_. And maybe … maybe I don't have to. Maybe no one is following me. There wasn't anyone with the girl from One, after all. No one knows I'm the one who killed her. I took off because I thought I heard someone coming, but there's no way anyone would have seen me, even if they ended up finding her. And, even if they figured it out – even if they've been following my footprints – it's getting too dark to follow them.

Finally, I sit down. My eyelids are starting to get heavy. I think … I think I might finally be able to sleep now. I didn't last night – not really. But now … maybe I'm tired enough. Tired enough to forget – at least for a little while – that if I fall asleep, I might not wake up. Someone could come along and kill me just as easily as I killed Clarisse.

But maybe … maybe that wouldn't be so bad. There are worse ways to go, I suppose. She never felt a thing. Maybe I won't, either. Maybe it would be better than whatever else might happen in the arena. That's not really a very comforting thought, but it's enough. Enough to let me finally drift off to sleep.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

I can't keep running forever. Chances are, the pair from Ten aren't even following me. Maybe Carina even managed to kill one of them. Then they _certainly_ wouldn't be coming after me. They'd be coming after her.

But maybe … maybe _she'd_ be coming after me. If she's still alive, she's got to be pretty pissed at me for leaving her. But what choice did I have? What was I supposed to do? Stay there and help her fight? Get myself killed over a few loaves of bread?

But I _am_ glad I took the loaves of bread. And just as glad that I didn't take _all_ of them. Because then they certainly _would_ come after me. But I took just enough – enough to keep me alive for a while – and left enough for them. Or for Carina, if she happened to kill both of them.

No. Not both of them. There was only one cannon. Which meant that either she killed one of them and managed to escape, or…

Or they killed her. That should make me feel bad. Guilty. But if it had to be her or me…

But did it? Was that really the choice? Or could both of us have survived? If I'd helped her attack, would we have been able to kill both of the others? Would we really have had a chance?

We could have waited, I suppose. Waited until they went to sleep. Maybe that would have been the smart thing to do. But, if I'm being honest, neither of us was really thinking about the _smart_ thing to do. We were tired. We were hungry.

I'm _still_ hungry. I finally stop long enough to take a bite of one of the loaves of bread. It's delicious. I mean, it's not the _best_ bread I've ever eaten – certainly not as good as some of what we ate in the Capitol before the Games – but, right now, it's practically a feast. It's all I can do to stop myself from cramming both loaves into my mouth and gobbling them whole right now.

But I can't do that. I have to ration it. There's no telling when I might find more food. So I eat a few more delicious mouthfuls and stuff the rest into my pockets. If anyone happens to see me, I don't want them knowing that I have food. That could get me killed.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

He has food. That's what I keep telling myself as I stumble forward in the dark, trying to follow footprints I can barely see in the moonlight. The boy from Eight – he has food. I need food. So I have to keep following him.

But it's getting hard. Hard to see the footprints, yes, but also hard to keep moving. My legs are tired. My eyes are tired. My stomach is aching. But if I don't find him – if I don't catch up – it's only going to get worse. Stopping to rest isn't going to help, and it could be deadly. The only thing that's going to save me now is food.

And he has some.

One step forward. Then another. He can't keep going forever. Eventually, he'll have to stop for the night. Eventually, he'll have to let his guard down. I'll just have to hope I find him by then. Because it may be the only chance I have.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

It'll be easier to follow the footprints when it's light out. That's my excuse, at least. Not that I need one – not really. I'm tired of walking. That has to be a good enough reason to stop. And whoever I'm following – assuming I'm still following anyone in the dark – they'll have to stop eventually, too. I'll catch up tomorrow.

Assuming I'm still alive tomorrow. I'm careful as I lie down this time – careful not to lie too close to the wall. That's what got Clarisse killed. Well, that and her snoring. I don't snore. At least, I don't _think_ I snore. No one ever _told_ me that I snore. Clarisse certainly didn't tell me. Then again, I didn't tell her, either.

I'll just have to hope people weren't just being polite my whole life. Because this time, there's no storm to hide any sort of sounds. The skies are perfectly clear. Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe there's not even anyone else in the area. I know there's _someone_ , of course. Whoever killed Clarisse. Whoever's trail I've been following. But surely they wouldn't turn around and come back this way.

Not intentionally, of course. But, in the dark, it's probably easy to get lost. If I'm being honest, I'm not even certain anymore whether I'm following a trail. I'm pretty sure there have been imprints in the sand, but, for all I know, they could be someone else's. Whoever I was following, their trail could have crossed someone else's by now, and I wouldn't know the difference. I'm not even sure I would know if I was following my _own_ trail.

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe all that matters is that I _look_ like I'm following someone. That I _seem_ like I'm tracking whoever killed Clarisse. Because that's why I started following the footprints in the first place – to give the audience a good show. If I happen to find someone, all the better. If I don't … well, maybe that's not so bad. It means I won't have to fight. That I won't have to kill. And that _I_ won't be killed.

Not yet, at least. Eventually, I'll have to fight. At least, I hope I'll have to fight. Because the alternative is that I'll be killed before I have the chance. No one is coming out of this thing without blood on their hands. That much has been clear from the start. If I want to live, I'll have to fight. I'll have to kill.

But it doesn't have to be tonight. I close my eyes, gripping my dagger tightly as I drift off to sleep. I hope no one finds me tonight.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

I hope no one else finds us tonight. Aubrey offered to take the first watch, but it's obvious that neither of us is going to be sleeping well tonight – not after what just happened. But we'll have to try to get some rest eventually, so it might as well be now.

But it's hard – with the body in the clearing. We moved it to the edge of the clearing – near one of the entrances. Partly because neither of us wanted to sleep with the girl's body so close. But also because Aubrey thought it might deter other tributes from entering the clearing.

And maybe it will. It would certainly stop me. But that's not really saying much. Right now, I think a dead animal would make me think twice about continuing along a path. Well, maybe. At least a dead animal would mean food.

And at least we still _have_ food. Food that we're going to have to ration carefully, now that the boy from Eight took some of it. At least he didn't take all of it. Maybe he was being kind. Maybe he was being clever. Maybe it doesn't matter. He left us some – that's all that matters, in the end. We have food. We're not going to starve to death.

Not for a while, at least. And, if the Games keep going at this rate, we might not have to ration it for that long. There are already nine tributes dead. Nine tributes in two days. If the Games keep going at this rate, they'll all be over soon.

I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not. On the one hand, it means I could be closer to going home. But I could also be closer to being dead. And Aubrey … If I'm closer to going home, it means she's closer to being dead. And if _she's_ closer to going home, then I'm…

No. No, I can't afford to start thinking like that. Can't start thinking of her as competition. As the enemy. We fought together. We just killed a girl together. That has to count for something.

We killed a girl. I still can't wrap my mind around it. The girl – Carina – she meant to kill Aubrey. I had to stop her. Had to fight. But that doesn't make it any easier. We killed someone. Someone who probably just wanted some of our food. If she had just asked…

Then what? Would we have given her some? I honestly don't know. If the two of them had simply walked into the clearing and asked for some of our food, I'm really not sure what we would have done. What Aubrey would have done. I'm not even sure what _I_ would have done. But I guess we'll never find out.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

I think Colt finally managed to fall asleep. I wasn't sure he'd be able to, really – after what happened. I know I had a hard time sleeping after my first battle. And this … I'm pretty sure I'll have a hard time sleeping after this, too.

Because even though this wasn't my first battle, I think it might have been the worst. Because it's the first time I've fought someone I didn't actually _want_ to kill. During the war, I knew what I had to do. What I _wanted_ to do. I was fighting for our freedom, and I was willing – eager, even – to kill Capitol soldiers in order to get it.

But this girl – Carina – she wasn't a Capitol soldier. She wasn't a soldier of any sort. If anything, during the interviews, it sounded like some of her family – her sister, at least – was supportive of the rebellion. I didn't _want_ to fight her. I didn't want to kill her.

But the Games aren't what any of us wanted. None of us want to be here. None of us want to fight. None of us want to kill. But we're here. And we're going to have to kill if we want to go home.

And I've already proven that I can. That I can ignore my own conscience long enough to get the job done. I'm not sure whether I'm proud of it or not, but I do know that it gives us a better chance.

No. No, it gives _me_ a better chance. Because there is no _us_. Not really. Don't get me wrong – I'm glad Colt's here. I'd probably be dead if he wasn't. But if it comes down to him or me…

I hope it doesn't. I really hope it doesn't. Because I don't know if I'd be able to kill him. And I don't think he'd be able to kill me. What would the Capitol do then? Would they simply kill both of us? Would they wait to see which one of us starved to death first?

I'm sure they're doing everything they can to make sure that it doesn't get to that point, but what if it does? What would they do? What would _we_ do? All I can do is hope we don't have to find out.

* * *

 **Lincoln Tantalum, 12  
** **District Three**

I just hope we don't find out who was following Vance. Sure, there are three of us, but we're not exactly hidden. There's not exactly anywhere to hide here. Just a bunch of cactuses. Big cactuses. I suppose we could hide behind some of them, but that only hides us from one angle. There are at least three different ways into the clearing. Maybe more. Certainly more, if someone decides to climb over the walls – or stab through them.

Which is why we already decided not to sleep by the walls. Vance thought that was a little strange, at first – until we explained what happened with the mutt. Well, until _I_ explained what happened with the mutt. Maverick didn't do much in the way of explaining, aside from nodding along with what I said. But he didn't seem to mind that I told Vance. Maybe he'd just glad we're all getting along.

And, despite what I might have thought before about tagging along with two loyalists, I have to admit that Vance isn't that bad. Which shouldn't surprise me, I guess. After all, Maverick's not that bad. And I suppose most folks that supported the Capitol during the war weren't. It's not that they're bad people. They just grew up in families that supported the Capitol. They've never known anything else.

Not that I plan on telling either of them that. Not with the entire Capitol watching. Now isn't the time to argue politics, or to draw attention to the fact that I'm not as much of a loyalist as they think I am. What would be the point? It would just paint a target on my back. And that's something I don't need – not when there might already be someone chasing us. Well, chasing Vance, at least. But if she finds us, is she really going to be picky about which of us she kills?

Not likely. From what Vance told us – which wasn't a lot, but enough to piece together what happened – she didn't care that she killed the boy from Eleven instead of him. If she catches up to us, is she really going to hesitate to kill me and Maverick alongside Vance? If she didn't think twice about killing a crippled boy…

No. She won't hesitate. Which means we can't, either. We have to be ready. When she catches us, we'll have to be ready for a fight.

Because it's really only a matter of _when_ , not _if_ she finds us. We're not exactly well-hidden. Our tracks clearly lead here. But here's as good a place as any. Maybe we can even set up some sort of trap at the entrances to the clearing.

Maybe. In the morning. Right now, all three of us are tired. When Vance offers to take the first watch, Maverick and I don't argue. It's been a long day for all of us, but, oddly, as I lie down to go to sleep, I feel almost … safe. We have food. We have water. We have each other. Maybe things are actually going to be okay.

But only for a little while. The thought still won't shake itself from my mind, even as I close my eyes. The knowledge that, no matter how good it feels to have allies … partners … friends, even … it can't last forever. Eventually, only one of us can live. And having a supply of both food and water has relieved the aching in my stomach, but replaced it with another aching, another longing. More than ever, I want to live. I want to make it out of this arena alive. But I don't want my allies – my _friends_ – to die in order for me to get there. It's not fair.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

I don't want him to die. I can't shake the thought from my head as I watch Peter, sleeping soundly beside me. I don't want him to die. But I know he has to. Not here, and not now, but eventually, in order for me to live, this little boy beside me has to die. It's not fair, but those are the rules. The Gamemakers made that quite clear. Maybe it would be better if I just left…

No. No, I can't do that. We have a plan. And that plan involves – has _always_ involved – staying together. We've assumed that about each other from the start – that we wouldn't just leave. Wouldn't just walk away from each other. That we would protect each other.

But what if trying to protect him gets me killed? Wouldn't it be better to simply leave right now, without any fuss? Wouldn't that be better than watching him die? Or getting myself killed trying to save him? If I stay, those are the only two options: either he dies, or I do.

Of course, those options are the same if I leave. But at least then I won't have to see it. Still, no matter how much I want to get up and walk away, my body won't listen. I stay. Four hours, I stay. A faint glow is starting to creep over the walls of the arena, and I'm still here. Only then do I wake Peter.

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

It's already starting to get light by the time she finally wakes me up. "Let me get a few hours of sleep, too, and then we'll go after the snakes," she suggests. I nod my agreement. A few hours of sleep is the least I owe her after she practically let me sleep through the night. Again.

Maybe it makes her feel better. Like she's protecting me, somehow. She's not, of course. Nothing happened during the night. And if something had, she would have woken me. At least, I'm pretty sure she would have woken me. Would she have tried to fight off someone by herself?

I shake my head. My imagination's getting carried away. If something had happened, I would have heard it. It's been an uneventful night. There haven't even been any cannons – not for quite a while, at least. But maybe that's a good thing.

Is it, though? No cannons mean no more tributes are dead. There are still fifteen of us left. But it also means that both Sienna and I are still alive. We're two of those fifteen.

But what happens when that number starts to dwindle? If tributes keep dying – and we're still alive – what happens when that number is down to four, or three? Or even two? If we were the last two still alive in the arena, what would happen?

It probably won't happen. I _hope_ it doesn't happen. But if it does, what would we do? Would we really have to fight each other? What else _could_ we do?

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

I must have finally managed to fall asleep, because it's starting to get lighter when I wake up. What else was I supposed to do? I couldn't simply avoid sleeping forever, just because I don't have anyone to watch my back anymore. I couldn't stay awake forever.

And, luckily, nothing happened. I'm still alive. Still perfectly fine. Well, aside from being hungry and thirsty. And being trapped in an arena with people who want to kill me. Aside from that, everything's just great.

Not that anyone particularly _wants_ to kill me, of course. No more than I want to kill them. But we have to kill each other. Those are the rules. If I ever want to get out of this arena, I have to fight. I have to kill.

I grip my spear tightly, peeling a few of the leaves from the wall of the maze as I stand up. These leaves won't keep me going forever. If I can't find food, I won't have to worry about any of the other tributes trying to kill me. They won't have to try very hard if I'm weak from hunger and thirst.

But they must be in the same position – most of them, at least. Certainly, they're hungry, too. Unless they've managed to find something. And if _they_ can find something, _I_ can find something. It's only a matter of time.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

It's only a matter of time before I have to get up. But now that I've finally managed to lie down and get comfortable – and I think I even dozed off for an hour or two – it's much harder to convince myself to get up and start moving again. Yesterday morning, I was wet. It's always harder to get comfortable when you're wet. But now…

Now, the sand is warm. Almost inviting. It's tempting to just lie here. To stay here and wait for something to happen.

But nothing is _going_ to happen. Nothing good, anyways. It's not like food is just going to drop out of the sky. If I want something to eat, I'm going to have to find it myself.

It's that thought – the thought of food – that finally forces me to sit up. And then to stand. It's getting a little lighter out. Light enough to be able to see. And if I can see, then so can everyone else. Anyone who happened to come this way would be able to see me. And that's definitely not good.

Not good. That's a mild way of putting it. Nothing in this arena is good. Nothing about these Games is good. _Nothing_. If I ever make it out of here, I'm going to convince the Capitol this was an absolutely _terrible_ idea. No one should be able to put teenagers – _children_ – through this sort of hell.

Not even them. Not even the Capitol my family has supported for as long as I can remember. The Capitol I was willing to fight for – ready to _die_ for – during the war. Not even they have the right to do this to us. It's not fair. It's not right. And if I ever get out of here…

But I can't worry about that right now. Can't say it. Can't even _think_ it. Because that's not what the Capitol wants to see. They want to see someone who will play by their rules. And I will. I can. But only as long as I'm in here. If I get out – no, _once_ I get out – I'll put a stop to this. Somehow.

Because this can't keep happening, year after years. Once … well, maybe _once_ is fitting punishment for the rebellion. But Game after Game, year after year … they can't really plan to let that happen. Can they?

But they can. And they will. Unless someone tells them differently. Maybe they don't even realize. Maybe they don't recognize – out there – just how horrible it is in here. But they will. They'll know. Once one of us survives and tells them exactly what it's like. Then they'll have to see. And they'll have to stop.

They'll have to.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

I'll have to decide what to do eventually. I can't just stay here. The clearing seemed as good a place as any to stay for the night – especially surrounded by so many weapons – but I can't just sit here. Can I?

Maybe. Maybe if I wasn't so hungry. Maybe then I could simply stay here, well-armed, and wait for the others to come to me. But I can't. I have to find food. And in order to do that, I'll have to keep moving.

So I take one last look around the clearing. It's getting lighter – light enough to see that there's still no good place to hide this many weapons. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. It's not as if there was going to be a hole in the wall—

A hole in the wall. That's it. Slowly, I stand up, then choose one of the swords from the pile. Then I make my way over to the wall and carefully wedge the sword between several of the branches. Maybe it's not perfectly hidden, but if someone wasn't looking…

Quickly, I do the same with as many of the other weapons as I can. A few – the spears and a few of the larger axes – are too big to conceal very well, but the walls do an excellent job of hiding the knives and daggers. Not too shabby. It won't stop anyone who's specifically looking for weapons and knows they have to be _somewhere_ around here, but at least there's no longer a giant pile of weapons just _begging_ to be collected.

Okay. So that's that done. Maybe it's not much, but it feels good to be doing _something_ productive. Feels like … well, like I'm finally taking matters into my own hands. Taking the initiative, as it were. Planning ahead instead of simply reacting to whatever happens.

And that's good. It feels good to have a plan – even if it's a plan as simple as "remember where you hid the weapons." I still have mine, of course – the knives, hatchet, and sickle that I chose last night – but if I lose them for some reason, at least I know where there are more. Not that I plan on losing them, but no one ever really _plans_ to lose anything.

Okay. Now I really have to get moving. I need to find some food. Having access to dozens of weapons won't keep me from starving to death. Slowly, I head for one of the paths out of the clearing – the one opposite the path that Crescent and I took two days ago. At least if I go this way, I won't be tempted to go back to the marsh in search of berries. I don't want to drown – obviously – but if I got desperate enough, I might decide to chance it.

I can't afford to get that desperate.

So I'll have to look elsewhere for food. But if there were berries there, surely there must be food somewhere else. I'll just have to keep looking. Because there isn't really any other option.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

What other option do I have? I grip my knife and my whip tightly as I peek into the clearing one more time. The boy on guard – the boy from One – is facing the other way. But that doesn't mean I'd be able to sneak in and kill even one of them. To say nothing of killing all three.

Three. I suspected earlier, when I saw the tracks, that there might be more than one of them. But I'd been hoping, nonetheless, that the tracks were made at different times. That the boy from Two would be alone. One-on-one, I might be able to handle a fight against him. Or maybe I would get lucky and catch him while he was sleeping. That's what I was hoping for. But now…

Now there are three of them. Sure, two of them are smaller, but they're well-armed. I can see two spears, at least. And they might have more weapons that I can't see. Can I really hope to take on all three of them at once?

But what choice do I have? Turn around and go back? No. No, that's not an option anymore. I'll never get a better chance than this. Two of them are asleep. Maybe I could sneak in and kill the boy from One quickly. Maybe I could kill the other two in their sleep. Maybe…

Just as I take another peek into the clearing, however, the boy from One shakes the other two awake. Maybe he saw me. Maybe he heard me. Maybe he just figures it's time to wake up. The sun is starting to peek over the top of the maze wall. It's only a matter of time before they're all completely alert. I'll have to make my move now, or lose my chance – maybe forever.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

I thought I heard something. Some sort of rustling. I'm not entirely sure, but I'd rather wake them up and be wrong than have someone sneak into the clearing while the other two were asleep. After all, what good is having someone stand guard if they're not going to wake the others if they even suspect that something is wrong?

The three of us quickly get to our feet and look around. I don't see anything. Not anymore. But I could've sworn I saw something move earlier. Something off to our right. I keep looking, but I don't see anyone.

I shake my head and shrug at Vance and Lincoln. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe it was some sort of animal. Maybe it was just my bad ear playing tricks on me. I don't know.

But then, just as I'm starting to think that maybe we should go back to sleep, shouting fills the clearing. "Over here! They went this way! Follow me!" A girl rushes into the clearing, glancing over her shoulder, screaming. "Come on! We found them!"

Vance turns immediately to Lincoln and me. "Run. I'll hold them off."

He doesn't have to tell me twice. Immediately, I sprint from the clearing, swerving around the cactuses as I run, a knife gripped tightly in my hand in case someone else is blocking one of the exits. They aren't. Without looking back, I race through one of the exits, and keep running. Running. Only once I slow down to catch my breath do I realize that Lincoln didn't follow me.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

Lincoln didn't follow him. Damn it. I was hoping they would both run. That way, at least I'd be saving their lives – the way Aldous saved mine. We'd been assuming that Silver was alone. But if she's found some other tributes to help her – like I have – then we could very easily be outnumbered.

But, as she gets closer, I still don't see any. I grip a spear tightly, motioning to Lincoln to get behind me. He doesn't. He stands defiantly next to me, a pair of knives drawn. He's got courage – I'll give him that. I just hope it doesn't get him killed.

After only a moment's hesitation, I charge at Silver. At the very least, I can keep her from going after Maverick. I can give him time to get away. Maybe Lincoln will have the sense to run, too. Or maybe … maybe we could even kill her – together, the two of us, we might be a match for her. I killed her district partner, after all.

But he had his back to me. I have Silver's full attention. She dodges the first blow from my spear, then swings her whip. It doesn't even come close to striking me. But she wasn't aiming for me. She was aiming for my spear. Trying to wrench it from my grasp. I'll have to be careful.

She swings again – this time at Lincoln. He ducks. Dodges. He's smaller than me, but he's faster. Fast enough to dodge her whip as he charges. But she sidesteps. Circles. Too late, I realize where she's going. As she circles around to the other side of the clearing, she snatches up the other spear. _Shit._ This isn't going the way I wanted.

But it clearly isn't going the way she wanted, either. No one else followed her into the clearing. Is it possible there wasn't anyone else to begin with? Was she trying to scare the other two away so she could fight me one-on-one? Did I play right into her hand by trying to send Maverick and Lincoln away?

I don't have time to think it over. She charges again, and I barely have time to step out of the way as the spear slashes towards my legs. I don't have time to dodge the whip, which lashes around my arm with a terrible crack. I cry out but manage not to drop my spear as Lincoln takes advantage of Silver's momentary distraction. He charges, but he has a pair of knives. Silver has a spear. All she has to do is take a step back.

He tries to dodge the blow. But it's too late. The spear pierces straight through his shoulder. Lincoln cries out in pain, staggering backwards from the force of the blow, blood spilling from the wound. "Lincoln!" I rush to his side, but it's too late. Too late to do anything for him. And too late for me to dodge the whip that comes rushing towards my back.

The blow is harder this time. I can't help it. I drop to my knees beside Lincoln. The next blow strikes Lincoln, who cries out in pain and terror. Without thinking, I throw my body over his, stabbing blindly with my spear. But the whip is longer. Longer than I thought. One blow strikes my arms, then another. Something stabs me in the leg. Silver's spear. I don't care. Unable to stand, I stretch my body out over Lincoln's, shielding him from the whip.

One blow. Then another. I want to scream. To beg her to stop. But I know she won't. This is what she wanted – from the moment I killed her ally. And maybe I can take it. Maybe I even deserve it. But I can stop her from hurting Lincoln.

The whip strikes again. But the next blow is a punch. I can feel blood in my mouth. Something strikes me in the side. Everything's starting to get blurry. The next kick rolls me off of Lincoln, who's whimpering softly. I don't see the blow that ends it, but at least it's quick. The cannon sounds, and I know mine will come soon. Everything is getting blurry. But at least … at least Maverick got away. At least I finally did something right.

* * *

 **General Luther Tyrone  
** **District Seven Escort**

The cannon never comes. Everyone is waiting for it, but the cannon simply refuses to sound. Silver stops punching once Vance loses consciousness. Maybe that makes sense – at least to her twisted, sleep-deprived, grieving mind. She wants him to suffer. And he can't suffer if he's unconscious.

So she takes her time. It doesn't take her long to figure out that they've been eating the insides of the cacti. She helps herself to some of their food and most of their water, waiting. Waiting for him to regain consciousness.

But then she gets a better idea. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. I want to look away from the screen, but I force myself to watch. Because I did this. My actions in District Seven – at least in part – did this to her. Turned her into the monster that she's about to prove she is.

I was under orders. Giving orders. She's not. She's a loose cannon. And there's no one to stop her. No one to stop her from dragging Vance's limp form over to a larger cactus. No one to stop her from tearing off his shirt and propping him up on his knees against the trunk of the cactus, his back exposed. Then she stretches his arms above his head, impaling his hands on two of the cactus' spines, using what remains of his shirt to tie him securely in place.

Then she steps back. Waits. Her whip clenched tightly in her hands. She won't have to wait long. He's already starting to come around. And there's no one to stop her.


	29. Justice

**Justice**

" _There's no justice in the world – not unless we make it."_

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

There's no one to stop me. It's a strange feeling, really. A feeling of power. Of control. I've never really felt in control of anything in my life. During the rebellion, Leo and I lived in fear of being caught. Being killed. I wasn't in control when my family was executed. Wasn't in control when Simon was killed.

But now … now I have his killer at my mercy. No one can stop me. All I have to do is wait for him to wake up, and he's all mine. Even if the Capitol somehow swoops in and kills me right now, I have what I wanted. I've avenged Simon's death.

Because this boy is going to die. At my hands. He could be dead already, if that's what I wanted. But it isn't. I gave his friend a quick death – the boy from Three. But Vance – he doesn't deserve a quick death. Not after what he's done. What the Capitol's done. What he supported. What he and the other loyalists praised and fought for. This is their fault.

And now he's going to pay for it.

I pace a little more, fingering my whip. His arms are already red with welts where I beat him before, his face swollen from my punches. But he's still alive. I want to make sure of that. I want him to feel every moment of it. I want him to know what my parents felt. What Leo felt. What everyone I cared for felt when the Peacekeepers nailed them to their crosses and left them to die.

I want justice. I want satisfaction. Or maybe I want revenge. Maybe there isn't any difference. Not right now. Not anymore. Maybe … maybe I just want him to die.

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

It's a few moments before I realize that I'm not dead. I thought … well, I thought I was dying, when I lost consciousness. I assumed she would kill me. Now … now I wish she had.

Because everything hurts. But especially my arms. My hands. Deep, sudden pain washes through my hands as consciousness comes rushing back. Finally, I open my eyes. At first, all I can see is green. I'm on my knees, my face pressed against a cactus, my arms drawn over my head, my hands—

That's why there's so much pain. There's a cactus spike piercing each of my hands. Holding me in place. I try to wriggle my way free, but my arms are held in place with some sort of fabric. My shirt. My shirt is gone.

Somewhere behind me, a whip cracks. Strikes my back. The pain in my hands is immediately overtaken by the sudden, sharp pain in my back. One strike. Then another. It's all I can do to keep from screaming. I won't give her that satisfaction. I won't…

But as the whip strikes again, my resolve weakens. A quiet moan escapes my lips. The next blow lands a little higher, across my shoulder blades. The next misses entirely – or maybe it's intentional – wrapping around my arms, instead. One blow. Then another. Blood. I can see blood starting to spatter on the sand. My blood.

My stomach starts churning. The next wave of pain sends vomit spewing from my mouth – all over both my chest and the cactus in front of me. It reeks – but not as badly as the smell a few moments later, when a sharp blow rips across my back. I cry out in agony, and, for a moment, lose all control. My pants turn wet, the smell of my waste overcoming me. My knees go weak, and, for a moment, the spikes through my hands are the only thing supporting my weight. My arms ache with the extra burden until I find my way to my knees once more, tears stinging my eyes.

"Please." I can hear my voice. It's pathetic. Whimpering. Barely louder than a whisper. But I don't care. I don't care how I sound. How I look. I just want it to be over. "Please … just kill me."

For a moment, the blows stop. Silver makes her way into my field of vision. Funny – I thought she would be smiling. Reveling in the moment. But she's not. Her face is cold and hard as she meets my gaze, and utters one single word. "No."

Her whip strikes again, and the pain returns. Sharp and fierce – just like her eyes. I scream. I cry. I beg. But nothing does any good. What does she want? Yes, I killed her ally, but I made it quick. He didn't suffer. Not like this.

Not like this.

Everything's starting to get blurry again. Dark. I can feel my body starting to droop. Limp. Useless. There's blood everywhere. Bits of flesh. I don't know how much more of this I can live through. Not too much, I hope. I just want it to be over.

I just want…

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

There's still no cannon. I grip my knife tightly, waiting. How long has it been? Hours? And still no cannon. I thought – a little while ago – that I heard shouting in the distance. But that could have been coming from any direction. My hearing isn't exactly the most reliable even when I'm not a bit disoriented.

A bit. That's an understatement if I ever heard one. It's all I can do to keep from running into walls as I stumble along, gripping my knife tightly, hoping I don't run into anyone in my current state.

It's not an entirely unfamiliar feeling. When I set off the mine that left me scarred, I wandered around for a while, completely out of it, until I was found by a stranger and taken to the district healer. I didn't know where I was or what I was doing, and I don't really remember most of it.

This … this feels the same way. My brain is having a hard time even processing what just happened. Vance saved us. Well, saved _me_ at least. Lincoln stayed. Why did he stay? _Did_ he stay, or did he just run off in a different direction than I did? Maybe. But my gut is telling me otherwise. He stayed. And I ran.

I ran. That thought fills me with more shame than I'd like to admit. We had just met Vance. We didn't really owe him any sort of loyalty. But Lincoln stayed, anyway. Stayed to help him fight. _I_ should have been the one to stay. We're both loyalists, after all. We should have stuck together. _I_ should have stuck with him. _I_ should have remained loyal.

But it was Lincoln, of all people, who was more loyal than me.

Still no cannon. Only one. It doesn't make any sense. Because Silver had allies. Lincoln and Vance were both there. So how could only one of them have died, unless…?

Okay. There are a few possibilities. Maybe Vance and Lincoln managed to kill Silver quickly, and the rest of her allies thought twice about the attack and ran. Maybe the opposite happened – maybe Silver and her allies killed either Vance or Lincoln, and the other one ran. Or maybe…

Maybe Silver didn't actually _have_ any allies. We only heard her voice shouting. Only assumed, based on her actions, that there were others following her. Could it have been an act? Maybe. And if she was alone, and there was only one cannon…

Then she's probably the one who's dead. Vance and Lincoln could be sitting in that clearing right now, happily eating cactus and wondering when I'm coming back. Would they come looking for me? Should I go back? I didn't bring any food or water with me, so, eventually, I'll _have_ to go back. I'll have to find out what happened. I just … I just hope they're still alive.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

I can't keep going like this forever. I'm starting to see things. The clearing up ahead … it almost looks like a marsh. But how would there be a marsh in the middle of a desert-like maze? It doesn't make any sense.

But, as I stumble closer, I can see that it is, in fact, a marsh. Murky water. Plants. And, in the center, some berry bushes. Clever. Clever, Gamemakers. But I'm not falling for it. I already have food. Not a _lot_ of food, but I can't swim, and I'm not about to risk my life going out on a marsh after a few berries when I have bread in my pockets.

But, still, this might be a good place to stay for a while. If any tributes happen to come this way, they might not even notice me right away. If I hide in the shallows, they might slip right past me and go after the berries in the middle of the marsh. Maybe. Or maybe not. Either way, it's as good a hiding place as I'm going to find right now.

So I make my way to the edge of the marsh and wade in a little. Just up to my ankles. I don't want the bread getting soggy. I sit down, my back leaning up against the wall. It smells. Really, really bad. But, at the moment, I don't even care. I just want to rest. I just want to sleep. After the night I just had, surely I deserve it. And if anyone finds me…

It's that thought that keeps me from dozing off – for a little while, at least. If anyone finds me, I'll be almost completely defenseless. When there were two of us – me and Carina – we could at least trade watches and be relatively safe. But now, there's no one to stand guard.

Which is my own fault, of course, so maybe I don't really have a right to complain about it. I'm the one who left her. Left her to deal with those two tributes on her own. Left her to die, even. I don't know whether she's dead, of course. Maybe I'll never know.

No. I'll know. When I make it out of this arena alive, I'll know she's dead. I take a deep breath and grip my club tightly as I finally close my eyes. If I'm going to make it out of here, I need to rest. I'll need to be prepared when it finally _does_ come down to a fight.

Because it will eventually. So far, I've been able to get by with stealing. I let Carina do the fighting. But now I don't have her. Eventually, I'll have to get my hands dirty.

I laugh a little at the thought. Because my hands are already filthy with marsh water. If they were covered in blood, instead … well, would that really be any worse? Maybe. I'm glad I haven't had to find out yet. But I won't be able to avoid a fight forever. Eventually, my hands will have to have blood on them, if I want to survive.

And I do. More than ever, I want to survive. Having food … maybe that helped a bit with that. Winning is starting to seem like more of a possibility now that starving to death is off the table. I have food. I don't know how many other tributes do, too, but it can't be all of them. This is the _Hunger_ Games, after all, and having food – even a little – gives me an advantage. Eventually, though, it's an advantage I'll have to use.

* * *

 **Tullia Litvina, 12  
** **District Twelve**

I don't even see the boy at first as I enter the clearing. The berries catch my eye before I glance around the rest of the marsh, finally finding him. He's nestled in a corner, sitting in the marshy water, sleeping. At least, he _looks_ like he's sleeping. But is he really? Or is it a trap?

Then I see the food. A few loaves of bread, sticking out of his pockets, carefully positioned not to be sitting in the marshy water. If I can sneak in and grab even one of them – even a _handful_ of one – then at least I won't be so hungry. My stomach won't ache so much. I don't even need _all_ of them. Just a bit. Just a mouthful. Just enough to keep me from starving to death.

I could ask, I suppose. Call out to him from a safe distance, ask if he would be willing to share. But what if he says no? I might have given up my only chance of getting food. Because once he knows I'm here, I won't be able to sneak in and get anything. He'll know there's someone following him.

And what reason would he have to share his food with me? Would _I_ share with _him_ , if our positions were reversed? As much as it shames me to admit it, I don't think I would. That's why I didn't want to work with a partner in the first place. I didn't want to take the chance. I didn't want to share. So why should I expect anyone else to?

No. No, if I want food, I'll have to claim it myself. I'll have to take it. Slowly, I inch closer. Closer. His eyes stay closed. His breathing is even. Level. Part of me wishes I had some sort of weapon. If I could kill him from a distance, I could take _all_ of his food and eat it at my leisure. But I have nothing. And there's nothing within reach. Nothing except the boy's own club, which I certainly can't take without him noticing.

Finally, I'm standing directly over him. He still hasn't budged. My heart is pounding. All I have to do is reach down, grab some of the bread, and run. That's all I have to do—

But, just as I'm reaching down, the boy's eyes snap open. Maybe he could hear me breathing. Maybe I was blocking the sun and he noticed it was getting cooler. Maybe this was a trap all along. Either way, the club comes swinging at my head. I duck and turn to run, but something grabs me by the ankle. Drags me down.

I squirm, trying to get up, but the boy is on top of me. The club comes down. I raise my hands to block it, but pain shoots through my arms as the club strikes. Again. And again. The blows strike my arms as I desperately try to shield my face from his club.

Pain. So much pain. My arms go limp, and the boy shoves them out of the way, his club striking my face. I feel it once. Twice. Then I feel nothing. Everything is going dark. I never had a chance. It's not fair. It's not…

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

It takes me far too long to even realize that I'm following a set of footprints. I've been looking at the ground, of course – and everywhere else – but haven't really processed anything other than a complete lack of food in every direction. But there they are, clear as day, right in front of me: two sets of footprints.

At least, I think it's two sets. Sometimes, it seems more like four. But when there are four, there are two pairs. Two sets are the same size, two a different size. Almost as if someone backtracked and added another set of footprints. Did they do that intentionally? Or did they get lost and have to double back? There's no way to tell.

If it _was_ intentional, it was pretty clever. Certainly more clever than I'm being at the moment. Anyone who wanted to follow me could do so pretty easily. Exactly who would _want_ to follow me, I'm not sure. Most of the rebels – the tributes who would have a reason to hold a grudge against me for being a loyalist – were killed at the start of the Games. Memphis. Simon. There's still Silver, I suppose, but she ran the other way – and she never really seemed as dangerous as the others.

And Aubrey, who I hadn't really pegged as a rebel until the interviews. Where is she? I don't even remember which way she went. Then again, it's been two whole days since the start of the Games. Even if she started off going one direction, she could very well be on the opposite side of the arena by now.

Two days. Two days, and there's still no food in sight, aside from the leaves on the walls. I finally decided to take my chances with them, and maybe they'll keep me from starving for a little while – assuming I don't keel over from some sort of poison – but they're not going to keep me alive forever. Not unless I find something a bit more substantial.

Maybe if I keep following these tracks, I'll find something. Because whoever made them has to be somewhere – assuming they're still alive. Maybe they've found food. Maybe they have something I can steal or…

Or what? Kill them for? That's what we're here for, after all. To kill each other. If I saw another tribute with food, would I be willing to kill for it?

Yes. A few days ago, I may have hesitated. May have wanted to find a way to steal their food without killing them. But now … now that sort of logic falls flat. If I take their food, they'll die. So I might as well kill them. Better a quick death at my hands than a slow death from starvation.

All of this speculation, of course, is useless at the moment, because I haven't _found_ anyone – let alone anyone with food. But if I do, at least I know what I'll do. What I think I'll do. What I _hope_ I'll be able to do, with my injured leg and my mind growing increasingly unfocused from two days without food. I just hope that by the time I _do_ find someone, it's not too late.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

There doesn't exactly seem to be a shortage of tracks leading out of the clearing. Even after the rain the first night, it's clear that at least a few tributes have come and gone from the clearing we started in. I'm not sure exactly whose tracks I'm following, but at least they're clear. Easy to follow.

Is that why it didn't rain the second night? Are the Gamemakers trying to make it easier for us to find each other? If so, it's certainly working. I have no way of knowing, of course, just how old these tracks are, but it's only a matter of time before I find the tributes they belong to.

Assuming, of course, that the tributes who made the tracks are, in fact, still alive. Because there have been eleven cannons so far. Eleven tributes dead. Almost half. Only thirteen of us are left.

That thought scares me more than I'd like to admit. It's only been two days, and our numbers have already been cut in half. We're killing each other off a lot more quickly than I'd assumed at the start of the Games.

I'm part of that, of course. I killed the boy from Six. And I let Crescent die. Neither of their deaths was really the result of a fight. So maybe the rest of the deaths have been like that. Maybe.

But my gut disagrees. There have been too many cannons to simply represent tributes trying – and failing – to escape, or dying by accident in a clever trap. Eleven cannons – they can't all be accidents. Tributes are fighting each other. Killing each other. And it's only a matter of time before I have to do the same.

I grip my hatchet tightly as I keep walking. Someone could appear at any moment, ready to fight. Why, exactly, they would be tracking _me_ , I don't know. No one really has any reason to target me. But, on the other hand, no one really has any sort of reason _not_ to. I didn't exactly make friends during training. Aside from Crescent, of course. And she's dead. The others may not have a reason to want me dead, but they don't really have a reason to spare me, either.

Just like I have nothing in particular against whichever tribute I happen to be tracking at the moment. I don't know who it is. Right now, I don't really care. The only thing that matters is that they're up ahead somewhere. And that maybe – just maybe – they have food.

Maybe that's a silly thing to hope for. After all, if _I_ haven't found food, what makes me think someone else has? But there has to be food _somewhere_. And this direction is as good a direction as any to look in. Isn't it?

I hope so, because there's not really much choice at the moment. Well, I could always go back, I suppose. But I already know there's not any food back in the clearing. There's nothing there at all – nothing except weapons I don't need. Weapons that won't help me find food. Weapons that won't really do a thing to keep me alive.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I'm still alive. I stretch a little as I open my eyes, pleasantly surprised by the fact that the sun has already risen, and nothing happened during the night. Well, not entirely _nothing_. There was a cannon, I think, but it barely even woke me. Whether that's a good thing or not, I'm not sure. But I'm alive. That's what matters.

How many cannons does that make? Ten? Eleven? I'm not even sure anymore. And that's _not_ a good thing. But do they really expect us to keep track of how many cannons there have been? We have to sleep _sometime_.

But the cannons – they're the only way we have to keep track of how many tributes are dead … and how many are still alive. Have there been ten or eleven? Are there thirteen or fourteen of us left? That may not seem important now, but later, it could be the difference between there being two or three tributes … or between being the only tribute left and having one more to contend with.

So maybe it's better to err on the side of assuming there have been fewer cannons. After all, if I assume there are fourteen tributes left, and there are really thirteen, what harm could it do? On the other hand, if there are actually fourteen and I act as if there are thirteen, I could let my guard down at the wrong time, and that could be detrimental.

Okay. Fourteen it is. I slowly get to my feet and start walking, gripping the knife I took from the girl from One. Her knife. My knife now. She's dead. She doesn't need it. But there's no telling when I might. No telling how many tributes might be in this direction.

I wish I'd paid more attention at the start. Wish I'd kept track of who ran in which direction. But even if I had, there's no guarantee that they kept going in that direction. Or that the path they took didn't curve. I've changed directions often enough, so why should I assume everyone else kept going in the same direction?

What I actually need is a map. But I'm not exactly likely to get one. And I'm not exactly in a position to make one. So I simply start walking, trying to remember which direction I came from. It's not easy. Everything's starting to blur together. One green wall looks almost exactly like another. The leaves all look the same. The sand all looks the same.

I wonder if the tributes are all starting to look the same to the audience. Was that the point in dressing us in matching outfits at the beginning? Were they simply trying to avoid giving anyone an unintentional advantage, or was there more to it? If we all look alike, maybe they aren't particularly upset when one of us dies. Just like I wasn't particularly upset when I killed the girl from One.

And I wasn't. If I'm being honest, I'm still not. She would have died anyway. Why should I be sorry? She had to die, in order for me to go home. Does it really matter whether I was the one who killed her?

But, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it does matter. I'm a killer. There's blood on my hands. Blood I'll never be able to wash away. But maybe … maybe I can live with that, if it means getting out of here. If I get out of the arena – no, _when_ I get out of the arena – then I can worry about the consequences of what I've done. Until then, I'll just have to keep playing their game.

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

It's the creaking trees that startle me awake. "Go back to sleep," Aubrey suggests with a yawn. "It's just the wind."

And maybe she's right. We've traded a few watches already, with no incident. Why should I be so certain something would happen now? But something's not right. Something about the way the wind keeps blowing through the trees. The way the branches keep swaying back and forth. Almost as if the wind is trying to knock them over.

"We have to get out of here!" I call, just as the first tree starts to crack. Aubrey is on her feet immediately, snatching up our weapons and our food. I don't bother. I just run. One tree, then another, then another – falling quickly, just behind us. I hear Aubrey cry out, but I keep running. Running. I can't seem to run fast enough. A tree crashes in front of me, and I clamber over the trunk. Only once I reach the edge of the clearing do I finally stop and look back.

Aubrey's trapped. One of the trees has her pinned. I can't see exactly how badly. "Help!" she calls. I clench my fists tightly. I have to go back. I have to help her. Not because she has the weapons or our food – although that's certainly true, as well. But because my friend is calling for help.

And, right now, that's stronger than my fear.

Okay. Okay. Most of the trees have already fallen. There's not really much danger. Whatever that storm was, maybe it was just meant to scare us out of the clearing. Or maybe … maybe it was meant to hurt Aubrey. The thought makes my stomach turn, but the Capitol knows she's a rebel. Was a rebel, at least. What if…

No. No, it's just a coincidence. That's what I tell myself, at least, as I make my way back to the clearing. "I'm sorry I ran," I finally manage to say, though I even I can hear how hollow my apology sounds. Aubrey is lying on her side, her right leg pinned beneath one of the trees.

She shakes her head as I approach. "You would've just gotten trapped, too. It's not like you could have stopped the tree from falling. Just help me get out."

I nod. But I can already tell it isn't going to be that easy. There's blood. Blood staining the sand around her. It's all I can do not to throw up as I get a good look. Am I really going to be able to lift the tree off of her?

She must have been able to tell what I was thinking, because she nods to one of the larger branches. "Break it off. Use it as a lever. You should be able to lift it enough for me to pull my leg out."

I nod. But my hands are shaking as I grab the branch. How is she so calm? How is it that she knows exactly what to do? And why can't I be more like her?

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

Why couldn't I have been more like him? I clench my teeth, trying to hold back a scream as Colt begins to lift the trunk. The pressure is gone from my leg, but it's replaced by pain. Terrible, crushing pain. It's all I can do not to scream as I pull my leg out from under the tree trunk, cringing at the sight of the blood.

It's my own fault, of course. I just _had_ to gather the food and the weapons. Colt had the right idea. Get out alive. Worry about the rest later. Everything else could have waited. We could have gone back for the food and the weapons as soon as it was safe. His fear kept him from getting hurt.

Strange. During the training I received during the rebellion, we were always told that fear would get us killed. That fear would make us hesitate during a crucial moment, make us indecisive. But it was my lack of fear that made me think that gathering our weapons and food was a good idea, that we would have enough time to get way. But Colt – his fear and his instincts told him to run, and he did. Simple. Primal. And it worked.

Grimacing, I sit up as well as I can, leaning back against one of the nearby tree trunks, trying to keep myself from vomiting at the sight of my leg. It's broken – that much is clear. The trunk landed just below my knee, splitting the bone. Splinters of the bone are sticking through my skin. It hurts like hell, but that's not the worst of it.

The worst of it is what it means. Because if I can't even walk – if I can't even _stand_ – then how am I supposed to fight? And how am I supposed to win these Games if I can't fight? I'm going to die – all because of a stupid split-second decision to grab our food and supplies rather than just run.

Or maybe … maybe it's not a coincidence that Colt got away from the trees in time, and I didn't. Maybe this is exactly what the Gamemakers wanted. I close my eyes as Colt does his best to bandage my leg. It's not going to be enough. I can feel him tying a strip of fabric tightly around my leg just above the knee. Trying to make a tourniquet. But it's not going to be enough.

Because the Gamemakers have already decided that I'm going to die. That they can't have a rebel like me as their Victor. I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse – blaming it on them. But it's hard to disagree.

I don't say that to Colt, of course. Because as I open my eyes, I can see him watching me. Begging. Practically pleading with me to say something. To tell him that it's going to be all right. That _I'm_ going to be all right.

But I'm not. I know that already. But telling him that … it could break him. So I say the only thing I can think of. "Good work, soldier."

It's worth it, just to see him beaming with pride.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

Whatever that cracking noise was, I'm glad I wasn't anywhere near it. It sounded like it was coming from the distance, somewhere behind me. I'm probably safe, but I keep moving forward, anyways, gripping my rapier as tightly as I can, hoping no one finds me.

But eventually … eventually someone will _have_ to find me. Or I'll have to find them. And then … well, then at least I have some sort of weapon. I have a way to defend myself.

Or a way to attack. If I'm being honest, I haven't really given much thought to that side of the equation. Ever since Clarisse was stabbed, I've been worried about being on my guard. Being able to defend myself when the time comes. But what if it's better not to be caught defending myself at all? What if it's better to simply attack?

I shake the thought from my head as I stumble forward. The entire matter is moot until I actually _find_ someone. And I'm not going to be able to attack _or_ defend myself if I'm too weak from hunger. So food is my first priority. Has been for a while, I suppose, but that hasn't made it any easier to find. I guess they didn't call this the _Hunger_ Games for nothing.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

I'm so surprised to find myself in a clearing, it takes me a moment to register that I'm not alone. I don't think either of the other tributes saw me, but I'm not taking any chances. I quickly duck back behind the wall, my spear clutched tightly in my hand. It's a few moments before I work up the courage to peek back into the clearing.

Sure enough, they're not even looking in my direction. The pair of them are huddled around a pile of what looks like branches. Rubbing some of them together. Trying to start a fire? Why the hell would they want to start a fire in this heat?

Because it _has_ gotten hot again. It wasn't so bad earlier this morning, but now that the sun has risen higher above the walls of the arena, everything has gotten hot and dry again. If I were them, I'd be looking for _water_ , not trying to start a fire. What do they think they're doing?

But I can't help but watch. Because if they're doing something as ridiculous as trying to start a fire in this heat, then they must have a good reason. Either that or they've gone completely insane. Which, I suppose, is a possibility. But, still, if there's even a _chance_ that they're on to something, what harm is it going to do me to stay and watch?

None at all – as long as I keep a safe distance. It's not as if they're going to burn down the whole arena, after all. Even if their fire gets a little out of control, there's nowhere for it to go. It's not like fire can burn sand. Can it? I don't even know. It's not like we see much sand in District Six. Now if I had someone from District _Four_ with me…

But I don't. Not like either of them was a good candidate for a partner in the first place. I shake my head at the thought. Okay. I have to focus. Can't afford to stop watching them. Because if they _do_ start coming my way, I'll have to be ready.

* * *

 **Peter Eldamar, 13  
** **District Nine**

"Be ready," Sienna whispers as she finally manages to strike a flame. I nod, gripping a branch tightly in my hands. Ready to attack any snakes that may start to emerge once we light the bushes on fire. Sienna lights a few more sticks from the flame, and begins tossing them into the bushes. They catch fire quickly.

Too quickly. It's immediately obvious that something is very, very wrong. Not only are there no snakes slithering out of the bushes, but the fire is spreading too quickly. Sienna and I take a step back. Away from the bushes. Sienna takes my hand encouragingly. "It's okay. It was a good idea. No harm, no foul. We'll just let it burn through the bushes, and then—"

And then nothing. Because no sooner have the words left her mouth than the flames leap from the bushes to the wall of the maze. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I assumed we would be safe as long as we stayed away from the bushes. Fire can't burn sand. But it _can_ burn the walls of the maze.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

"Run!" I shout. Peter doesn't have to be told twice. Gripping each other's hands, the two of us flee from the fire. Back the way we came. But the fire is gaining on us. Burning through the dry fuel of the arena walls almost as fast as we can run. _Shit._

I should have thought of this. Should have been ready. It was my job to protect him. My job to take care of him. And now—

Suddenly, without any sort of warning, Peter gives a shout, and I feel his hand slip from mine. I look back. Peter is standing there, shocked, staring at a spear. A spear that's impaled in his side.

The girl who's holding the spear – the girl from Six, I think – looks almost as surprised as I am as she draws the spear out. Peter slumps to the ground, lifeless, as a cannon sounds. The girl runs. After a moment, I run after her. No, not after her. Away from the fire, which continues to gain on us. What the hell was I thinking? What the hell was _Peter_ thinking?

I brush the tears from my eyes as the smoke catches up to me. But it's not just the smoke. I was supposed to protect Peter. I was supposed to—

But why? Who told me I was supposed to protect him? Only me. That was a burden I put on myself. A burden that's now been lifted. Now all I have to worry about is my own survival. And that's going to be more than enough.

* * *

 **Commander Phoenix LaVelle  
** **District Nine Escort**

He never even had a chance to defend himself. There was no way either of them could have known that Paean was waiting for them around the corner. No way they could have known that she would attack.

I'm not even sure that _she_ knew she was going to attack. She looked just as surprised as Peter and Sienna by what she did. What she did. She killed a boy. One of my tributes. I should feel something. Anger. Rage. A need for revenge. But all I feel is pity – for all of them.

When the Games were first announced, I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity. A chance for the districts to prove that they weren't all rebellious cowards. That some of them were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their districts, for the Captiol, for all of Panem. I thought it would be exciting. I thought it would be _fun._

Instead … it's just sad. There was nothing exciting about Peter's death. Nothing heroic. Nothing to be proud of or angry about. He was just a kid. They're _all_ just kids. And none of them deserve this.

* * *

 **And with that, we're at the halfway point of the Games. Twelve tributes gone, twelve tributes left.**

 **As you might have guessed from this chapter - the first with multiple deaths since the bloodbath - things are going to start to move a bit faster now. There are a lot of pieces in place at the moment, waiting to make their moves. And they won't have to wait long, so hold onto your hats.**

 **We're going to leave the current poll up for one more chapter before replacing it, so make sure to vote.**


	30. Duty

**Duty**

 _Love is the death of duty._

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

Idiot. I'm _such_ an idiot. How could I have thought that setting anything on fire in an arena practically full of dry leaves and bramble was a good idea? What was I _thinking_? What was either of us thinking?

The truth is, we _weren't_ thinking. Not really. Not with our heads, at least. We were thinking with our stomachs. We were so hungry that anything that _might_ result in even a little food seemed like a good idea. We were starving.

I still am, I suppose. Peter's not. He's dead. She killed him – the girl from Six. Right in front of me. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. Still isn't, I suppose – even though I'm still racing after her. Towards her – away from the fire. It's really the only way to run. The fact that we're both running this way – it doesn't mean I'm chasing her. Does it?

No. Because there's nothing I could do, even if I caught up to her. She has a spear. I have … nothing. Not even a stick. We left all the sticks we found in the clearing when we ran. They're burnt up by now, along with everything else. Including Peter's body, probably. I just left him there – left his body there to burn.

But what else was I going to do? He was already dead. What was I supposed to do – carry his body with me? The fire would probably have caught my by now if I had.

Because even as it is, it's still gaining on me. On us. That's the only comfort I have, really. If it catches me, it catches her, too – the girl who killed Peter. She's not running any faster than I am. She's probably just as hungry. Just as tired. Just as willing to try anything that might result in a meal.

Is that why she attacked Peter? Did she think we had food? Surely she could see that we didn't. So why kill him? Have people simply started to go crazy? That's a possibility, I suppose – and not exactly an unlikely one. We've been in here more than two days with no food and little water, and now there are flames right behind us. Who would be able to think clearly?

Not me, that's for sure. I can't even see clearly – not anymore. The smoke is getting too thick. I can see well enough to tell that the path forks in two up ahead. I run to the right of the barrier. The other girl runs to the left.

Good. I hope I never see her again. Because I honestly don't know what I'd do if I did. Would I try to avenge Peter's death? Would I even be able to? Would she even want to fight me? Did she even mean to kill Peter? More than anything, I just want answers – answers I know I'll never get. Because the most important ones _have_ no answer – at least, not a satisfying one.

She killed him because she was supposed to. That's what we're here for – to kill each other. She's playing the Game the way the Capitol wants us to. But I can't. I thought I could, but I just … can't.

* * *

 **Sylvana Paean, 18  
** **District Six**

I didn't even mean to kill him. Not really. At least, I don't think I did. I didn't even think about it – not really. It was just instinct. I saw him coming, and I attacked. I struck. Like an animal lying in wait for its prey.

Except I'm the prey now, running from the deadliest enemy of all – the fire that's right on my tail. I haven't heard the other girl behind me for a while. Not that her footsteps made much noise over the roaring flames, but I could hear her breathing for a while – gasping for air amid the smoke.

Maybe I'm just used to smoke. It doesn't seem to be bothering me as much. But, even so, the flames are gaining ground. I have to go faster. I have to—

Suddenly, I can see someone ahead of me. A boy. Watching. Staring. Waiting for me. He has a sword in his hand – long and thin. He's standing in the middle of the path.

Stupid. What a stupid place to stand. Of course, he doesn't know. He doesn't know I just killed a boy. Then again, maybe he can tell. There's blood on my spear, after all. The blood of a little kid who just happened to step into the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just like this boy. I charge as fast as I can. I don't have a choice. The flames are right behind me. If I don't get past him, I'll be burned alive. And he knows it. So why doesn't he move?

He dodges my first blow – a blow that seems slower than I thought it would be. Maybe I'm even more tired than I thought. No matter. I stab again. Harder. Swinging wildly. Maybe the smoke _is_ affecting me. I can't seem to hit him.

He doesn't have the same problem. He ducks beneath my next blow, stabbing upwards with his sword. I don't have time to dodge. I'm not fast enough. Not as fast as I thought. The blade sinks into my stomach. I gasp. Drop my own weapon. I'm clutching at the blade as it slides out of my belly, sending blood gushing through the open gash. "That was for Clarisse," the boy spits, and runs away – away from the flames.

Clarisse. Who the hell is Clarisse? Isn't she the girl from One? What did I do to her?

Maybe it doesn't matter. I did something to someone. I killed a boy. And now a boy killed me. Maybe that's only fair. Maybe it isn't. Maybe it doesn't matter.

Nothing seems to matter. Everything is growing cold, despite the flames. The flames that are beginning to lick at my flesh. But I don't feel it. I don't feel the pain. I only feel the blood gushing out of my body, making the sand warm. It almost feels good.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

The cannon sounds, but I keep running. The girl may be dead, but the flames are still roaring. Rushing ferociously towards me. Was she the girl who killed Clarisse? I don't know. She looked confused by what I said, but, if I'm being honest, I didn't say it for her. Or for me. Or even for Clarisse. I said it for the audience.

Because that way, even if I'm wrong – even if she wasn't the one who killed Clarisse – the audience thinks that _I_ think that she was. And that means I don't have to keep looking for the killer.

Which is good, because looking for the killer nearly got me killed. Could _still_ get me killed, if this fire doesn't die out soon – and it shows no signs of doing so. I clutch my rapier tightly as I keep running, barely able to see a few feet in front of me. Surely the Gamemakers don't mean to let the entire arena burn down – and us along with it. Surely they can't mean for the fire to kill _all_ of us.

Unless … was that the plan all along? Make us think that we have a chance of surviving, and then kill us all anyways in a freak wildfire? But why? It wasn't as if we were refusing to play their game. It's not as if none of the tributes have been killing each other.

Not as if any of _us_ have been killing each other. Because I just killed a girl. A girl who attacked me, yes. But she only attacked me because I was standing in the middle of the path. Then again, I was only standing in the middle of the path because I _wanted_ her to attack me. I wanted the audience to assume that I was avenging Clarisse's death.

But was I? I have no way of knowing. From the look of her spear, the girl killed _someone_. But that blood was fresh. That doesn't mean, of course, that she didn't kill Clarisse and then someone else. But it also doesn't mean that she didn't.

It doesn't matter. None of that matters right now. All that matters is that I get away from this fire. The smoke that's beginning to blind me. I can see the path fork up ahead, though. I can see where it turns off to the right. The direction I came from, I think. Where Clarisse and I stayed for the night.

There was water there. A pool of it. Not very large, but maybe enough. Maybe I can hide there. I can't swim, but if I can wade in far enough, maybe the water will protect me. Maybe. Or maybe I'll drown instead of burning to death. I'm not sure which would be better.

But first I have to get there. The fire is on my heels as I keep running. I turn right again, and there it is – the pool of water. But there's another boy, standing nearby, staring at the approaching flames. "Into the water!" I shout.

I don't know why. I don't know why I want him in the water. Why should I care if he burns to death? But somehow … I do. Maybe it's guilt. I just took a life. Maybe it's natural to want to save one. Maybe I'm just not thinking clearly because of all the smoke. Either way, as I jump into the pool of water, the boy follows my lead.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

You would think that, after what happened with Crescent, I would be hesitant to jump into _any_ sort of water. But if the choice is between drowning and burning to death – well, maybe drowning wouldn't hurt as much, at least.

Fortunately, though, the pool is shallow. The other boy and I wade in as far as we dare, until we're up to our necks. "Down!" the boy calls, and I take a deep breath and duck beneath the water.

I don't know why I'm listening to him. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe he's going to kill me as soon as I'm underneath the water, defenseless. But what other choice do I have? As I hold my breath, I can hear the flames roaring above us. Devouring the walls of the maze. It's definitely not safe to look.

I hold my breath as long as I can. My lungs feel like they're burning from the effort. My whole chest hurts. But still I stay beneath the water, my eyes shut tight. Is this how I'm going to die? Hiding in some pond while a fire rages above me?

Finally, my lungs won't hold any more. I surface again, only to see that the other boy has done the same, gasping for breath. The charred remains of the walls are all around us. The fire passed us by.

"It shouldn't have done that," the other boy sputters. "Fire … it doesn't do that. Not that quickly. It shouldn't be gone"

I suppose he would know. Now that I've gotten a better look, I can see that he's the boy from Twelve. Fire is sort of their job. Well, _coal_ is their job, but coal makes fire. If anyone knows what fire can do, it would be a tribute from Twelve.

But there's also no arguing about the fact that it just _did_. It burned through the walls in a heartbeat, and now it's gone. Continuing on in the other direction. I shrug. "I guess in here it does."

The other boy shakes his head. "That doesn't make any sense."

No. It doesn't. But does any of this? The fact that the Capitol thought pitting teenagers against each other in a fight to the death was a fitting punishment for the rebellion – does that _really_ make sense? The fact that we're actually _doing_ exactly what they expected us to do – does _that_ actually make sense?

"I guess things don't have to make sense in here," I offer, holding out my hand. "Icho."

Another thing that doesn't make sense. We should be fighting. We're supposed to be killing each other. There are only eleven of us left. But he just saved my life. I was thinking about jumping into the water, before he came. But I couldn't get over what happened to Crescent – not until he decided to jump in first. He saved my life.

Why? Why wouldn't he just let me die? Why didn't he just kill me himself? Clearly, he's not too afraid to kill. There's already blood on his sword. Or, for that matter, why didn't I just kill him? Why am I reaching for his hand, not my weapons? And why does he take my hand?

But he does. "Elijah," he nods, shaking my hand firmly. Does this mean that we're working together? That we're partners – the way Crescent and I were? Maybe. But I'll have to be a lot more careful this time. I have too much to lose.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

It takes me a moment to realize that the fire is coming straight for me. Well, not necessarily for _me_ , I suppose. It seems to be spreading in every direction. I just happen to be in one of those directions.

So the only thing to do is turn around and run. Back to the clearing. Maybe it was the only sensible thing to do in the first place. Turn around. Go back. Back to where there's food. Back to where my friends are. Where they _probably_ still are.

Even as I turn around, though, I feel something else. A drop of rain, falling from the sky. Rain. Rain to put out the fire. I can't help a laugh. It's quite a coincidence.

Or maybe it's not. Was the fire an accident, or did it have a purpose? Was someone trying to tell me that I needed to turn around? I'd thought about going back to the clearing, but hadn't quite been able to convince myself – not until I saw the fire. Now … now it seems like the only choice. Was that the intent?

Maybe. Or maybe it's just a coincidence. Either way, I'm heading back, gripping my knife tightly as the gentle rain turns into a downpour, dousing the flames. I tuck my knife in my pocket long enough to cup my hands and drink some of the water. I wasn't sure it was going to rain again, but now … now things are starting to look a little better.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I started running as soon as I saw the flames in the distance. I couldn't quite tell – at least not then – if they were coming towards me, but better safe than sorry. I ran back the way I came. Not that that's a problem – not really. I didn't have any particular reason for heading in one direction or another in the first place. I was just looking for food. But running away from a fire – that's certainly a compelling reason to change directions.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought so, because as the rain finally begins to quench the flames and I slow to a stop, I can see another girl behind me. Or, rather, I can hear her, gasping, out of breath, stumbling forward in the flames. I take a step to the side, hoping the branches along the wall will conceal me – at least a little.

Turns out, I had no reason to worry. She doesn't even seem to notice me as she stumbles past, away from the flames. She doesn't seem to notice anything – even the fact that the fire is gone. There's no reason to keep running.

Maybe that wasn't the only reason she was running.

I glance back the way she came. There doesn't appear to be anyone else. If there _was_ anyone chasing her, they're long gone. And so is she.

But I can follow her. Would be able to follow her even if I hadn't seen which way she went. Her tracks are obvious in the wet sand, even though the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky. Or maybe it's just the smoke blocking the sun. Either way, it's beginning to get darker. If I follow her…

I don't really have a reason to follow her. Not a good one, anyways. She didn't seem to have any supplies with her. No food. No weapons. Nothing I need – especially not that we all have water again.

But, still, there's a nagging feeling in the back of my mind – almost like a voice telling me that I should follow her. That I should take the initiative. I killed the girl from One, after all. Why would killing her be any different?

I would probably be able to, in the state she's in. It wouldn't take much. She might even drift off to sleep, being so tired – making my job a lot easier.

My job. That's the real problem. _Is_ it my job to kill her? Clarisse was already dying – I simply put her out of her misery. But this girl … there's nothing wrong with her. She's not injured – not physically, at least.

But mentally … mentally, she's clearly suffering. Something terrible happened to her – that much is obvious. And maybe that's enough. Right now, it's enough of a reason for me to put one foot in front of the other and follow her. The rest … well, I can deal with the rest when the time comes. Maybe I'll kill her. Maybe I won't. I can decide that later.

And the fact that it's my decision – that scares me more than anything else. Very soon, it could be my decision whether she lives or dies. Her life could be in my hands. And what scares me the most is that I don't know which one I'll choose.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

I killed her. I can't help staring at Tullia's body, lying in the marsh. Her blood still swirling in the waters. Her head bashed in. Bashed in with a club. _My_ club. I killed her. I beat her to death. A little girl – three years younger than me and much smaller. Why?

I can say why, of course. I can rationalize it. She was trying to steal my food. If I hadn't killed her, she might have come back again – maybe when I was _actually_ asleep. And if she had taken my food, I would have died, even if she didn't have the guts to kill me herself. I would have starved to death. It was her or me.

Wasn't it?

Yes. Yes, it was. Maybe not in that exact moment. Maybe she wasn't trying to kill me directly. But she wanted to live. And, eventually, that meant she would have wanted me to die. Just like _she_ had to die, eventually, in order for me to win. It's not fair. But it's what had to happen eventually. So why not now?

But that doesn't make it any better. The fact that she had to die eventually doesn't make it any easier to see her tiny body, broken and blood-stained, face-up in the filthy marsh water. I finally look away. I can't keep looking at her. Not if I want to be able to do this again.

Because the fact is, I'll have to. In order to get out of here alive, I have to be willing to kill again. And if I keep looking at her body – if I keep dwelling on what I've done – I don't know if I'll be able to do it again.

So I have to leave. I have to get out of here. Out of the marsh. Away from her body. And why not? Clearly, hiding in the marsh didn't do me much good, anyway. I thought the berry bushes would be enough of a distraction. That tributes would go after those and ignore me. Clearly, I was wrong. And if it didn't fool a twelve-year-old kid into leaving me alone, what makes me think it would work on any of the others?

Okay. So I have to leave. Have to find somewhere else. Slowly, I gather my food and my club and make my way out of the marsh. Away from the dead body. Away from the reminder of what I've done.

What I've done. What I'll have to do again. What the Capitol is forcing us – _all_ of us – to do. How many tributes are left without blood on their hands? I bet it isn't many. _Someone's_ been doing all the killing. There have been – what? Twelve cannons so far? Thirteen? People are killing each other. Eventually, only the killers will be left.

And I'm one of them. I'm a killer. But I always knew that – knew I would have to be, in order to make it out alive. What I didn't know was whether or not, when the moment came, I would have what it took. When I ran away from the pair from Ten instead of staying to fight alongside Carina, I had my doubts.

But now I know. I can kill. Not only am I _capable_ of killing, but I'm _willing_ to kill. And if I can kill a twelve-year-old little girl from District Twelve and still be okay, then I can kill _anyone_.

Okay. Am I okay? No. No, I'm not okay. But if they're expecting someone to leave this arena okay, then the Capitol's even crazier than I thought. No one is getting out of here okay. But _someone_ is getting out of here alive. And it's going to be me.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

It's not going to be me. Maybe it was never going to be me. Colt's done his best to bandage and splint my leg, but it's not going to help when it comes to a fight. And the pain … the pain is almost unbearable.

Almost. Not quite. I can still manage it. But if I have to walk anywhere – or run – or fight … I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what _Colt_ is going to do. If someone comes – if someone attacks us – will he stay and fight? Or will he leave me behind?

I don't even know which I would want him to do. I don't want to die. But I also don't want him to get himself killed trying to save me. Because, like it or not, I'm probably going to die in here. That's been true from the start, of course. But _probably_ is starting to seem a lot more like _almost certainly._

I close my eyes, leaning back against one of the fallen tree trunks. I actually thought I had a chance. Maybe that was stupid of me. Maybe it was stupid – or even naive – not to realize that the Capitol wouldn't want a rebel as their Victor. That I could never pass under the radar long enough to make it out of here alive.

It's the Capitol's fault, of course. The Gamemakers. If it wasn't for them, that storm wouldn't have happened. If not for the storm, I would be fine. Colt and I would be sitting here, happily eating the bread that … that the Gamemakers sent. They're the only reason we have food in the first place.

And maybe that's the point. Anyone watching the Games will realize it, sooner or later. The Gamemakers are the ones who are really controlling what's going on. They decide who lives and who dies. They even get to decide when. They can send us food, and they can send a storm to kill us. Our lives are in their hands. Our lives have _always_ been in their hands.

So maybe there's no point in trying to fight it.

I open my eyes again, glancing up at Colt. He's frightened – that much is obvious. And I don't blame him – not one bit. If anyone attacks us, he'll be stuck trying to defend both of us. Unless...

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

"You should leave." Aubrey's words catch me off-guard. She's not saying anything that I haven't been thinking ever since the storm, of course, but it's strange to hear _her_ say it. "I'm just going to slow you down. If someone finds us here, I'm useless in a fight. I don't want you to die because of me."

 _I don't want you to die because of me._ Something about her words makes my stomach churn. Because the first part of it is _I don't want you to die._ But I was always going to die eventually if she was going to make it out. If she doesn't want _me_ to die…

Then that means she realizes that _she's_ going to die. That she's accepted that. Maybe she's even okay with it now. Maybe the pain is bad enough that she just wants it to be over. She's obviously in pain – anyone looking at her could tell that. There's so much blood. I did my best to stop the bleeding, but I don't even know if she's going to last the night, let alone the next day.

And she's right about someone finding us. The girl from Three managed to find us, so it only stands to reason that anyone else would be able to, as well. The rain might wash away some of the footprints, but we can't hide from the other tributes forever. Eventually, someone will find us. Eventually, we'll have to fight again. And when that happens…

She's right. She's useless in a fight. But would I really be any better off on my own? At least if I stay, the fact that there are two of us here might be enough to scare a tribute or two away – if they don't realize how badly she's hurt. But if I'm alone…

And maybe that's the heart of the problem. I don't want to be alone. Being here in the arena is frightening enough. Being _alone_ in here would be a nightmare.

Which makes me more grateful than ever that I have someone with me. How many of the other tributes in the arena are facing the Games alone right now? Even if they started off with a partner or two, how many groups are left? Aubrey and I could very well be one of the only pairs left in the arena. And there _has_ to be some sort of advantage in numbers, even if one of us is hurt. Even if one of us is…

Dying. There's no easy way around it. She's dying – or will be, eventually. Sure, I managed to splint her leg, but that isn't going to stop it from becoming infected. That isn't going to stop her from losing more blood. And that isn't going to stop other tributes from taking advantage of her situation.

There's nothing I can do, of course, about the blood. Or about the possibility of infection. But I _can_ do something about the other tributes. And as long as I can stay here and protect her … I want to try. Because I don't want to be alone. And I don't want _her_ to be alone. If she _is_ going to die, I don't want her to be alone when it happens. No one deserves to die alone.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

I wish I didn't feel so alone. I didn't really think that would be a problem in the Games. It was always a given that whoever won was going to have to be working alone eventually. But it's been days. Almost three days of having no one to talk to. It's harder than I thought it was. I wish Bliss was here now. I wish…

But wishing for it isn't going to help. Bliss is dead. And there's no point in teaming up with anyone else now, even if I managed to find someone. There have been thirteen cannons … I think. Thirteen or fourteen. Or maybe it was twelve. It's hard to keep track – especially now that the rain and the thunder along with it are beginning to drown out any other sounds. If a cannon sounded now, would I really be able to tell the difference between that and the thunder?

Anyway, there have been about twelve cannons – maybe a few more. Which means about half of the tributes are dead – maybe a little more. About half of us left – maybe a little less. Anyone who's left is almost certainly in the same state I am: hungry, tired, not wanting to trust anyone else. Where would be the benefit in teaming up now?

Not to mention, I don't even know where any of the other tributes are. The tracks that I was following have begun to fade with the constant rain. It's been raining for at least a half hour straight now. And while that might be a good thing – at least now we have something to drink – it's also made me wet and cold and, if I'm being honest, downright miserable.

Maybe that's why I wish Bliss were here. Maybe she wasn't much good in a fight, in the end, but she was good company. And that's all I really want right now: company. Someone to talk to. Maybe someone to complain to. Someone who shares my annoyance and frustration at the injustice, the unfairness of this whole situation.

Then again, maybe it's a _good_ thing I don't have someone to talk to. Because having someone to talk to – to feed off of – would mean that the Gamemakers – and the rest of the audience – would hear the thoughts I've managed to keep to myself so far. My complaints about how unfair this whole situation is. My desire to make it out of here alive so that I can convince the Capitol to change things. To get rid of the Games. If I said that out loud…

What would they do? What would the Gamemakers do, if they could hear what I was thinking? Hell, what would _I_ have done, a few days ago, if I'd heard another tribute talking like that? I would have assumed they were a rebel. That they wanted to start another rebellion and overthrow the Capitol.

But that's not what I want. Not really. I just want them to understand – the people out there, in the audience – exactly what it's like in here. I want them to understand how miserable it is. I want them to know that … well, that once is enough. The districts have paid their price. They shouldn't have to pay it again year after year. Once is enough.

And maybe … well, maybe once is _more_ than enough. Maybe this is just plain wrong – no matter how many times the Games end up happening. Once is too much. One innocent life taken – that's too great of a price to pay.

I never thought I would hear myself say that. As a soldier, I was trained to be willing to lay down my life for my cause. But the tributes – the _children_ – who are dying in here … they're not dying for a cause. Their deaths aren't helping anything. Are their deaths really going to prevent another rebellion? That's what the Capitol was hoping for, of course – that their deaths would serve as a deterrent, a reminder of the cost of defying the Capitol.

But what if … what if it does the opposite? What if there are others like me – people who support the Capitol, but who are convinced that the Games are wrong, and need to be stopped? What if the Games actually _create_ more rebels than they stop?

* * *

 **Vance Feldspar, 16  
** **District Two**

The rain has only made everything worse. It's beating down on every cut, every bruise, every lash from Silver's whip. It stings. It burns. Funny – I never thought water could burn. But it certainly feels like burning. All across my back, my arms, my legs. I can't even feel my hands anymore. Pain has started to turn to numbness.

Maybe that's good. Maybe that means it's almost over. I hope so. I just want it to be over. I just want the pain to stop.

That's not what Silver wants, of course. She wants to drag it out. But I don't think she's going to get her wish for much longer. I've lost too much blood. I'm starting to get dizzy. Lightheaded. My vision is starting to get fuzzy – and I don't think it's just from the rain. I'm dying.

It doesn't feel like I thought it would. I don't know what I was expecting, but I always thought … I always thought death would hurt. But now death seems like a relief. A relief from the pain, the agony that's been filling my body for hours. Death would be welcome, if not for one thought.

And it's not the thought of my father. Not really. I thought my death would be a blow to him. A disappointment. But after what's happened now, surely he would understand that death would be a relief. No, it's not the thought of my father that's the most painful now. It's the knowledge that, after I'm gone, Silver will find someone else to satisfy her bloodlust.

At least it won't be Lincoln or Maverick. Lincoln is dead, and Maverick must be far away by now. Other than them … Kennedy and Carina might still be alive. Maybe. I have no idea where they are, of course. And Silver has no reason to go after them.

In fact, logically, if she's going to go after anyone, it would be Gardenia. Simon was fighting her when I killed him. But maybe that doesn't really matter. If I had to take a guess, this isn't even about Simon anymore. It's about her family – the people they showed during the interviews, hanging on crosses in District Seven. Her family. Simon's friends. This is her revenge for them.

And maybe … maybe that makes sense. The Capitol did that. I supported the Capitol. Maybe that was wrong. And maybe … maybe that's what she needs to hear. Mustering my strength, I manage a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Silver turns, startled, from where she had been standing, facing the other direction. "What did you say?"

"I'm sorry. For killing Simon. For what the Capitol did to your family. I'm sorry."

For a moment, she simply stands there, shocked. But then her expression hardens. Shock turns to silent rage, hidden just behind her eyes. She grips her whip. "No, you're not." She shakes her head. "But you will be."

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

He's not sorry. He can't be sorry. He doesn't _get_ to be sorry. He doesn't _get_ to apologize for what he did. For what the Capitol did. I don't _want_ an apology. I want my family back. And I want him dead.

The first one isn't going to happen, of course. Chances are, my family is dead by now. But he isn't. Not yet. One blow. Then another. He cries out amid the rain, his voice echoing across the clearing. Begging. Pleading for me to end it.

I don't. At least, I don't mean to. But, finally, it's too much for him to take. He's lost too much blood. I land one strike. Then another. My whip tears into his back, his arms, his legs. Drawing blood. Ripping away flesh. His body goes limp. The cannon sounds.

But I don't stop. I don't stop until I see the other boy. Peering into the clearing, his eyes wide with fright. He's one of the younger boys. District One, I think. Yes, District One. One of the volunteers. The son of Capitol soldiers.

I clutch my whip tightly. He's just as responsible for this as Vance was. His family supported the Capitol. _He_ supported the Capitol. Volunteered for these Games.

He's going to regret that.

* * *

 **Gloria Vincent  
** **District One Escort**

Maverick's going to regret going back to that clearing. He could have turned around. Headed back in a different direction once the rain started to quench the fire. But he kept going. Back to the clearing. Why?

Maybe he thought the others were still alive. Maybe he thought Vance and Lincoln had been able to kill Silver. Not an unreasonable assumption, I suppose. There were two of them. Only one of her. But now Lincoln and Vance are both dead, and I can't help but wonder whether Maverick will be next.

He's waiting. Waiting at the edge of the clearing as she approaches. Does he have a plan? Or is he simply frozen in shock? I don't know. Maybe I don't _want_ to know.

I hope he puts up a fight, at least. Clarisse … she never has a chance. At least he has a weapon. Sure, it's just a knife, but that's enough to make this a fair fight. Unless he just runs…

No. If he was going to run, he would have done it by now. One way or another, this will come down to a fight. But is it really a fight he can hope to win?


	31. Brave

**Brave**

" _Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"_

" _That is the only time a man can be brave."_

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

I won't win in a fair fight. I know that the moment Silver spots me. She has a whip. Several spears within reach. I have a knife. I won't win a fight. But, at the same time, I can't run. I just can't. She killed Vance. She probably killed Lincoln, too.

And she didn't just kill them. Maybe I could understand that. This is a fight to the death, after all. I knew that when I volunteered – and so did she. We're _supposed_ to kill each other.

But not like this. Not like what she did to Vance. Her whip is wet with blood. He's hanging by his hands from one of the cactuses nearby, his body practically torn to shreds. And, judging by the screaming I heard – and the cannon a few moments ago – he was alive for most of it. Killing someone is one thing. This … this is another. This is worse.

This is something I can't ignore.

I wish I could. I wish I could run. That would be safer. But would it? Would it really? Or would it just delay the inevitable? If I ran, would she come after me? Hunt me down, like she hunted Vance? Maybe it's better to face her now, when I'm ready for it.

But am I? Am I ready? I grip my knife as she gets closer. Closer. Her whip will be able to hit me long before I have a chance to strike with my knife. I have to do something to even the odds. I have to think—

But it's so hard to think. My mind is racing. Panicking. I do the only thing I can think of – I start to climb the wall. Soon, I'm at the top. Out of reach. Mostly. Her whip comes whistling towards me, but it can't hit me. On my hands and knees, I scramble along the top of the wall.

I could run. Turn and scurry off in the other direction. Part of the wall leads away. But she would follow. And I can't tell how far that part of the wall goes. I could end up being trapped. Better to fight here here – now. Better to—

Suddenly, something snaps. One of the branches gives way, and I tumble down into the wall, among the branches. Immediately, I begin sawing away at them with my knife. Trying to escape as Silver reaches for her spear. No. I'm _not_ going to die in here, trapped like an animal in a cage, just waiting for her to stab me through the wall, like…

Like Lincoln did. Silver's spear stabs wildly into the wall. It misses me, quickly lodging itself in a branch nearby. Giving me a moment to think as she struggles to wrench it loose. I take hold of it. Gripping it tightly. As she pulls it, flailing back and forth, I hold tight, and crash through the branches along with her spear, only to find I've lost hold of my knife. It's back there in the bramble.

For a moment, I simply lie here, gasping for breath, covered in cuts and scrapes from the branches, the rain beating down hard against my skin. Is this how it's going to end?

A blow from her Silver's whip startles me back to the moment. No. No, I'm _not_ going to die like this. Maybe I'm going to die here, but I'm going down fighting. I'm _not_ going to let her kill me the way she killed Vance. I reach for the spear. Her whip cracks across my back. Again. Again. The third blow knocks me down.

But I don't stay down.

* * *

 **Silver Grayne, 16  
** **District Seven**

He just won't stay down. I reach for the spear a split second before he does, snatching it up and out of his reach. If I wanted to, I could end this right now. I could end _him_ right now.

But that's not what I want. That's not what he deserves. He deserves worse. He deserves exactly what I did to Vance. Maybe worse. Vance's family supported the Capitol, but Maverick's actually fought in the war. His parents were soldiers – just as guilty as any of the others who fought for the Capitol. Just as guilty as the people who killed my family.

My family. I give Maverick another kick as he tries to get to his feet. He doesn't deserve to die on his feet. He deserves to die on his knees, like Vance. Or hanging on a cross, just like my family.

Just like my family.

I glance at the spear in my hand. Perfect. A perfect crossbeam. If I could just get him to stop squirming.

Maverick finally manages to stagger to his feet, but a swipe from my spear is enough to bring him down again, face-up in the wet sand. Immediately, I press my knee into his chest. Holding him in place as I slice away a strip of his shirt. He's wriggling as I lay the shaft of the spear beneath his shoulders. Gripping his right wrist in one hand, I bind it in place with the strip I cut from his shirt, then cut another one.

But by the time I've tied his left hand in place, he's managed to wriggle the right one free. Everything is wet and slippery. Especially him. Frustrated, I reach for one of my knives – the ones I've been keeping in my pocket. Finally catching hold of his right hand, I hold it down against the spear, then, with all the strength I can muster, I bring the knife down. Stabbing through his hand and deep into the wood of the spear shaft.

He screams, and, for a moment, he stops fighting. Good. Seeing that he's managed to free the other hand, I reach into my pocket for another knife.

But as I turn back to him, knife in hand, I feel something. A terrible pain in my side. It takes me a moment to register what happened. To realize that there's a knife sticking out of my stomach. A knife that, a moment ago, was in Maverick's hand. He ripped it out of his own hand in order to use it against me.

I clutch at the blade, but he yanks it out again. Stabs again. And a third time. The fourth blow finds my neck, instead. By the time I lash out at him with my own knife, it's too late. He's managed to scramble away. Leaving me to—

Leaving me to die. Blood is gushing from my neck and my side. Desperate to take him with me, I hurl my knife in his direction. But it doesn't even come close to hitting him. All he has to do is stand back and watch as the life drains out of my body. "I hate you," I manage to spit as I sink down into the wet sand.

For a moment, he says nothing, although he looks like he wants to. Like he's finding the right words. Then he says something – the last words I'll ever hear: "I know."

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

Silver's cannon might just be the best sound I've ever heard. I sink back onto the ground, exhausted, as the sound echoes through the clearing above the roar of the rain. For a while, I simply lie here, letting the rain wash over me. Letting it wash away the blood. My hand is still throbbing where the knife pierced straight through it, where I ripped it out again. But it was worth it. It was the only way I had a chance.

I wish I could say I planned it. But the truth is, I didn't. I was just desperate. Willing to try absolutely anything. And she turned her back just long enough for it to work.

Okay. I can't just lie here forever. My hand is still bleeding. Okay. First things first. I have to take care of that. Have to stop the bleeding. Slowly, I sit up. Make my way over to Silver's body. Use the knife to cut a few strips of cloth from her shirt, and slowly bandage my hand. It's hard to wrap the bandages with one hand – and even harder to tie the knots – but I finally manage it. Well enough, at least. Well enough to stop the bleeding. It doesn't need to look good. It just needs to work.

With that done, I slowly make my way over to the other side of the clearing, where Vance's body is still hanging from a cactus. Lincoln's body is nearby, discarded, face-up on the ground, his throat cut. Dead. They're both dead. My allies. My friends. They're dead. And I'm still alive.

It takes some doing – and some time to saw through the cactus spikes with one of the knives – but I finally manage to cut Vance's body free. I remove the spikes from his hands. Wash the blood from his body – and from Lincoln's. It's the least I can do. They may have died in agony, but I won't let their bodies simply lie here in disgrace. I lay them side by side, their hands across their chests. I close their eyes. It's not much, but it's all I can do.

Silver's body, on the other hand – I just let that lie, after checking her pockets for anything useful and finding only a few more knives. After that, I just give her body a kick, rolling it over so that it lies face-down. I don't want to look at her. I don't want anyone to look at her. She doesn't deserve to be seen. She doesn't deserve to be remembered. She deserves exactly what she did to Vance. What she wanted to do to me. If I'd had the chance…

No. No, I wouldn't have done it. That was her mistake, in the end – wanting to draw it out. To make me suffer. She had the chance to kill me – more than once – but she didn't take it. That was her mistake. I won't make the same one. I had the chance to kill her, and I took it. That's why I'm alive – and she's not.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

It's a good thing I left the marsh when I did, because, as I look back, I can see the water starting to rise. Not enough to be a danger to me now – not really – but definitely enough to keep me from going back. I can't swim, after all.

Then again, I doubt there are many people left in the arena who can. The tributes from Four are both dead – have been for quite a while. So there's no one who would really have an advantage in a watery arena. Well, no one except any tributes who hadn't managed to find water. I suppose they're happy right now. Me? I'm just annoyed that all I have now is a bunch of soggy bread.

I tried to keep it dry, of course. Kept it in my pockets. But these clothes aren't exactly waterproof. They're soaked clean through. Annoyed, I shove some more of the bread into my mouth. It's almost gone now. I've been eating it ever since it started raining. What else was I supposed to do? Keep a bunch of soggy bread in my pockets?

Which means I'll have to find more food eventually. But where? I could go back to the clearing with the dead trees, I suppose – where I found the other tributes in the first place. But if they have any sense, they've already eaten whatever food they had. Just like I have. They don't want soggy bread any more than I do.

I just wish I knew where they got food from in the first place. Where did they find bread in the arena? Because if they found it somewhere, there might be more. And what's the alternative? I could go back there. Not to ask them, of course, but if I can find them – follow them – I might be able to find wherever they got the food from.

Then again, what are the chances that they're still in the clearing? Why would they stay? They know that I know where they are. No, they've almost certainly left by now. And if I go back there, only to find that they've gone, then I've lost valuable time. Time that I could have spent looking for food elsewhere.

Of course, time isn't really my most pressing concern – not at the moment. The bread will keep me going for a while. I have plenty of water. What I really want right now is a safe, dry place to sleep. But that's not something I'm likely to find. If Tullia could find me, anyone else could, as well. No one will be able to follow my footprints in the rain, but I'm not exactly hidden.

Not that there's really anywhere _to_ hide around here. Everything seems so … open, now that I've left the marsh. There's nowhere to hide. Nowhere that I feel safe.

And maybe that's the point of the rain. To draw us out from our hiding places. Out into the open where none of us are safe. Because if they want us to kill each other, then it only makes sense that they would want us to _find_ each other. How can we kill each other if we're all hidden?

Then again, we haven't exactly had much trouble killing each other so far. There have been a few cannons even since I killed Tullia. Three or four, I think. How many tributes does that make today alone? There hasn't exactly been a shortage of killing.

So maybe the rain means the opposite of what I thought. Maybe tributes won't want to come out and fight during the rain. Maybe they actually want us to take shelter for a little while. To stay hidden. To make it _harder_ for other tributes to find us. Maybe things are moving too quickly.

They're certainly moving more quickly than I expected. I've already lost track of exactly how many cannons there have been, but it's more than I expected. More tributes than I expected to be dead – to be _killed_ – in three days.

At least, I think it's been three days. I'm not even really certain of _that_ anymore. It's getting dark. That means it's night, right? Or does that just mean the storm is getting worse? I'm not sure. And the fact that I don't know … well, that scares me.

Maybe I'm just more tired than I thought. Maybe I need some sleep. No. No, there's not really any _maybe_ about it. I need sleep. Real sleep. But if I actually fall asleep, rather than simply pretending to be asleep, will I ever wake up again? Or will someone like Tullia find me, and actually kill me this time?

This time, of course, they don't really have a reason to. I don't have any food left. I don't have anything for them to steal. But do they really need a _reason_ to kill me? Or would the fact that there are only a few of us left be enough of a reason?

Finally, I settle down, leaning back against the wall. Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe not. But I'll have to sleep eventually. And, with no possibility of going back to the marsh, I'm probably not going to find a good spot to rest. I'll just have to stop here, and hope that it'll be good enough for a while. Hope that the other tributes will decide that it's best to stay put in the rain. Hope that none of the other tributes find me. Because if they do, there's nothing to stop them from killing me. Nothing at all.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

There's nothing to stop me from killing her. Nothing at all. I'm armed. She's not. As she finally comes into view, collapsed in a heap, exhausted, I can see just how weak she looks. Then again, I imagine I look much the same. We're both hungry. Tired from running. Miserable because of the rain pounding down on us.

Then she looks up. Straight at me. "Well, are you going to get it over with?"

I was thinking about it. But something in her tone of voice stops me. She _wants_ me to do it. Why? I mean, I get that she's hungry, but so are the rest of us. Is that really enough of a reason for her to want me to end it?

"Why?" I ask softly, my voice quiet after three days of not speaking to another living person. "What happened?" It feels … good. Strangely good, to talk to someone else. I never really thought I would need anyone else in the arena. But this – it feels refreshingly … human.

And, to my surprise, she actually answers. Explains. It all comes spilling out of her at once, like the rain spilling down from the sky. "Peter and I – we were in the clearing. We thought that if we … if we lit a fire, it would draw out the snakes we found. That we would be able to eat them. It seemed like – well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but the fire got out of control. It was our fault. My fault. We just wanted something to eat. We ran, but the girl from Six – she killed Peter. She was just standing there, waiting for us with her spear, and I couldn't do a thing about it. He was dead before I even realized what was going on, and I … I ran away. I ran away from the fire, and then I ran away from her, and I just … I just wish I could run away from the Games! I wish I could get away from – from _all_ of this."

 _We all do._ I almost say it out loud, too. But I can't. I can't say that. Can't let the audience – the Capitol – know just how badly I want to get away from the Games, too. "But at least it's all over for him," she continues. "He's not hungry anymore. Not thirsty. Not tired. Not scared. He's just … gone. And that – it almost seems like that would be better."

"But not quite," I finish. "Because you don't want to die. You ran from the fire. You could have stayed there and died with him, but you didn't. You ran away. Why?"

My own question catches me by surprise. Why am I trying to convince her that she doesn't want to die? If she dies, after all, isn't it better for me? Maybe. But killing her now just seems … inhuman. And that's something I don't want to become.

"I … he wouldn't want me to," the girl decides at last. "I have a family. People who are counting me. If I don't make it back, I … I don't know what they'll do. And if I can make it back, maybe I can help his family, too. Maybe…" She trails off.

I nod a little. "So you want to make it back for them. Your family. His family. Your district. You want to help them."

"Yes."

"Then get up."

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

Her words catch me off guard. "What?"

"I said, _get up_. If you want to live, you can't just sit there doing nothing, crying in the rain. You have to try. You have to _fight_."

"I … I don't have anything to fight with."

"Maybe not, but you just told me what you had to fight _for._ We'll head back to the clearing. We'll get some weapons. And then…"

And then what? What is it that she plans to do? "And then we'll figure it out," she finishes vaguely. "Are you coming with me?"

For a moment, I just stare at her. Finally, I manage to ask the question that's been burning in my mind ever since I realized she wasn't going to kill me. "Why are you helping me?"

She hesitates, as if she's been trying to answer that question herself. Finally, she decides on an answer she's satisfied with. "Because I can. And because it feels good. And because we're both starving, so killing each other isn't going to do either of us any good. So we might as well help each other, instead."

Maybe that makes sense. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe … well, maybe whether or not something makes sense doesn't really matter anymore. If it's enough to keep us from killing each other, then maybe it's good enough.

Slowly, I force myself to my feet. The other girl smiles a little, holding out her hand. "I'm Neblina."

"Sienna."

The younger girl smiles a little. "Let's get you something to fight with."

I don't want to fight. Not really. But maybe if I look like I do, that'll be enough to satisfy the audience for a while. So I nod a little, following Neblina back towards the clearing at the center of the arena – the same place we ran away from three days ago.

Three days. It's hard to believe it's been that long. Three days with nothing to eat but a few snake eggs. Three days with no one to talk to besides Peter – and now Neblina. It's a wonder more of us haven't simply gone mad. Maybe we have. Maybe we _all_ have. Maybe the whole world's gone mad.

Or maybe … maybe it was always mad. Maybe the world was always like this, and we simply didn't realize it. Maybe the rebellion was just as crazy as this – on both sides. Maybe the world is simply insane, and being crazy is the only way to get by. Or maybe … well, maybe I'm just really hungry.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

 _Ping. Ping. Ping._ The noise is soft but persistent. Both Icho and I are on our feet in an instant, glancing around, trying to figure out where it's coming from. Finally, Icho points up at the sky, where a blinking light is descending. Falling – but slowly, almost floating. Whatever it is, it's attached to a parachute. Dropping steadily towards us.

Icho and I both back away as it lands, but, slowly, we both venture forward. It doesn't seem to be dangerous. Then again, pretty much anything in the arena could be dangerous. I never thought a wall would be deadly…

Still, I reach for it, too curious to resist taking a look. It's a small package, with a number _12_ written on the side. Something for me? Maybe. Carefully, I tear away the packaging, revealing two loaves of bread and four large strips of dried beef, along with a note. _D2M, D3F, D3M, D6F, D7F, D9M, D12F._

"We should eat the bread first," I suggest, handing Icho one of the loaves. It's surprising, almost, how easily I've started thinking in terms of _we_. But even though the package was labeled with a 12, it was clearly meant for both of us. And it's in each of our best interest to help the other stay alive as long as possible.

So we eat the bread first, before it has a chance to get soggy. The dried beef we save for later, each tucking two strips in our pockets. I'm still hungry, and it's tempting to eat all of the food now, but it's better to ration it. And even that small bit of bread has lifted our spirits. Things are starting to look a lot better.

Because now … well, now we know that there _is_ a possibility for food. The Gamemakers are sending it. All we have to do is figure out who they're sending it _to_. Why did we get food? Does it have something to do with the fact that I killed the girl from Six?

The girl from Six. _D6F._ I turn back to the list. "They're dead." My voice is almost a whisper. "The tributes on the list. They're dead."

Icho shakes his head. "Are you sure? There are more people dead than that. I killed a boy the first day. The boy from Six. He's not on the list."

The boy from Six. And I just killed that boy's district partner. There's an odd symmetry to it. But if the piece of paper isn't a list of the dead, then what is it? Tullia is on it – my district partner. Does that mean she's dead? The thought makes my stomach churn. Who would have killed her? She's just a little girl.

 _Was_ just a little girl. Either she's dead, or she's not as young and innocent as she used to be. And age … does that really matter now? Icho is two years younger than me. So was Clarisse. The girl I killed – she was my age – but the boy that Icho killed was younger. Not as young as Tullia, but does it really matter?

No. Not really. Not anymore. There are so few of us left. Nine? Ten? I'm not even certain anymore. But it isn't very many. If we come across another tribute, we'll have to be willing to fight – no matter who we're facing. No matter how young they are or how helpless they might seem.

But not right now. I hope we won't have to fight tonight. Because now that my stomach doesn't hurt quite so much, I'm beginning to realize just how tired I am. Icho is yawning, too. Maybe I should offer to take the first watch. Or should I let him take it – as a gesture of trust. Because, as strange as it seems, I do trust him. If he'd wanted to kill me, he could have done it by now. Is he thinking the same thing about me? How long can we really trust each other?

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

I don't know why I'm suddenly so certain that I can trust Elijah. Maybe it's the fact that he shared the food that was clearly meant for him. He didn't have to, after all. He could have kept it all for himself. But he chose to share it with me, even though that meant cutting his own share in half. It wouldn't make any sense for him to kill me now.

So when he offers to take the first watch, I don't argue. I'm tired. More tired than I'd like to admit, now that the aching in my stomach is mostly gone. Mostly. I'm still not _full_. Chances are, none of us will ever be _full_ in the arena. But at least we're not going to starve.

Just as I'm about to lie down to go to sleep, however, Elijah's voice stops me. "Don't lie too close to the walls."

I sit up a little, scooting away from the wall. "Why?"

Elijah shakes his head. "The girl I was working with – Clarisse … The first night, she went to sleep. She was lying next to the wall. Someone stabbed through it, and they … she was hurt. She died later that day. It was a stupid mistake. I just … didn't want you to make the same one."

I nod a little. "My district partner, Crescent – she ran out onto a marsh, trying to reach some berries. I couldn't even do anything. She drowned right there in front of me."

"That's why you didn't want to jump in the water," Elijah realizes. "You didn't want to die the way she did."

"I don't want to die at all," I point out. "Drowning – no, that doesn't seem like a good way to go. But burning to death didn't seem like a great option, either."

"Point taken," Elijah agrees. "I don't plan on dying, either, but if I do … well, I'm going down fighting."

That's exactly what I decided after Crescent's death. That I wasn't going to drown in some stupid marsh. That if I'm going to die, I'm taking as many of the others as I can with me. It just … well, it's strange to hear someone else say it.

Because one of us _is_ going to die eventually. Sooner or later – and, at the rate the Games are going, probably sooner – one of us is going to die. Maybe both of us. But he's right. I make sure my hatchet and sickle are within arm's reach as I lie down. Neither of us is going down without a fight. And, if we're lucky, it's a fight we'll face together.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

It doesn't take Icho long to fall asleep. Maybe that shouldn't be surprising. It's been a long day. A long three days. And even having a little food has done wonders as far as keeping our stomachs from aching. So maybe it makes sense that we'd be able to sleep a little easier.

On the other hand, it means Icho's decided to trust me – at least enough to let me stay awake while he's sleeping. He's trusting me enough to believe that I'm not going to stab him in the back the first chance I get. And I'm not planning to, of course – the thought barely crossed my mind. But the fact is that my last partner got stabbed while she was asleep. Not by me, of course, but still…

I shake my head, trying to keep myself awake. That wasn't my fault. There was no way I could have known there was anyone on the other side of the wall. And we aren't making the same mistake. Icho's far enough away from the wall that he should be safe. But if something else happens – if someone else comes and tries to attack us – what am I really going to do? Am I really going to be able to protect us?

Us. There's that word again. A somewhat unsettling – but somewhat encouraging – reminder that we're a team now. We're supposed to work together. If someone comes and attacks us, I don't have to fight them off on my own. I can wake Icho, and we'll fight them together.

But will even that be enough? Sure, we're both armed, but I'm still not sure how we'll fare if it comes down to a real fight. Yes, I killed the girl from Six. But she was so tired and disoriented after running from the fire that she didn't put up much of a fight. And Icho said he killed the boy from Six, but how much of a fight was that? I have no way of knowing. And I don't plan on waking him up to ask him.

Because even if I asked, he could lie. I'm not an idiot. Even though we're working together, we still want to make ourselves look good for the audience. I'm sure that if he asked _how_ I killed the girl from Six, I'd play it up as much as I could, make it sound as if she put up more of a fight. Because that's what the audience wants. They want a good fight. A close, stirring, gut-wrenching battle to the death between equals.

So maybe teaming up with Icho is a good thing. Because, no matter how you slice it, there are still two of us. How many teams are left in the arena? There were quite a few partners going in, but Clarisse is dead. Icho's partner is dead. The girl from Six – she had an ally. The boy from Eleven, I think. So he's probably dead. And the paper…

 _D2M, D3F, D3M, D6F, D7F, D9M, D12F._ Tullia didn't have a partner. I think the boy from Nine was working with his district partner. So was the girl from Seven, but her district partner was already dead. The boy from Three … I think he was with the boy from One. The girl from Three and the boy from Two were working together, weren't they? Along with the boy from … Eight, maybe? It's getting harder to remember. Training seems like such a long time ago.

It's hard to believe it's only been three days. Three days since we left the Capitol and all its luxury. Three days since we arrived in the arena. Three days since we've had a full meal and a good night's sleep. And only one of us will ever get those things again. I clutch my rapier tightly as I stare out into the darkness. More than ever, I want that one person to be me.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

I'm not sure why she wants to help me. Not sure why Neblina would want to help me find weapons and give me a fighting chance rather than simply killing me as soon as she found me. But it's hard to argue with someone who wants to help you. So I manage to smile as we make our way back to the clearing at the center of the arena. She smiles back a little, and it's almost like being with Peter again. Now I have someone to protect.

And that … maybe that's the problem. Maybe I simply don't know what to do with myself when I _don't_ have someone to protect. But, as much as I tried to protect Peter, I couldn't. I couldn't stop the girl from Six from killing him. So what if I can't protect Neblina, either?

I shake the thought form my head as I enter the clearing. I can't start thinking like that. I'm not _supposed_ to be protecting anyone. Because if I keep focusing on protecting _other_ people, I'm never going to make it out of here alive. Never going to make it back to my siblings who really _do_ need my protection. I can't start helping everyone I come across in the arena.

Which begs the question, of course: Why am I letting Neblina help me? Why didn't I refuse her help? Or, even worse, why didn't _I_ attack _her_? We're all competition, after all. The girl from Six realized that. She didn't have any qualms about killing whoever came across her path – even a thirteen-year-old little boy.

So why do I? Why is it that, even after three days in the arena, I can't picture myself killing her? Or any of them. Even the girl from Six. She was only acting out of necessity. She was just playing the Game the way it's meant to be played.

So why can't I?

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

It doesn't take us long to find the weapons, but I have to admit that hiding them in the walls was a neat trick. Whoever came back here and did that was clever. Very clever. No, it wasn't going to keep the weapons hidden forever, but, in a pinch, it might have bought them a little bit of time before an opponent could piece together where the weapons had gone. And those few moments – or even a few seconds – could be enough to give them an advantage.

An advantage that Sienna and I now share, because we know where to find the weapons. I stuff my knife in my pocket and choose one of the daggers that's tucked inside the wall. Small, manageable, but still deadly. Even a knife can be deadly, in a pinch. I did kill the girl from One, after all.

But that wasn't exactly a fight. She was asleep. Wounded. Defenseless. I'm going to need more than a knife if I expect to win a real fight.

Sienna's a bit more hesitant about choosing her weapon, but finally decides on one of the long, thin swords. A rapier, I think. Still, she doesn't look particularly thrilled by the idea of using it.

Not that _I'm_ thrilled by the idea of a fight, either – especially against another opponent who's armed. But there are two of us now. We stand a better chance in a fight than either of us would alone.

I turn the dagger over in my hands. That was Kennedy's reasoning, when he explained to me why he was teaming up with the girl from Three and the boy from Two. At the time, I didn't think it made sense. After all, they were still going to die if he was going to survive. Just like Sienna is still going to die if I want to make it out of the arena alive.

But, somehow, that doesn't seem to matter as much now. Strange, that death would seem _less_ important – _less_ imminent – now that we're actually _in_ the arena. But, somehow, it does. During training, all that mattered was what was going to happen in the Games. In the _future_. But, somehow, now that we're actually here, all that really matters is the present. I can't worry about what's going to happen _eventually_ – whether that's in a few hours or a few days – because I may not even live to see it. All that matters is what's happening right now.

And, right now, I want to help Sienna. I can't say exactly why. Maybe she reminds me a bit of Amelia, the way she seems to be looking out for everyone else in the arena. Maybe it's the fact that it's been three days, and she still hasn't killed. Maybe the fact that she just lost her district partner has earned her a little sympathy. Either way, the fact is that we're working together now because that's what I want.

If I'm being honest, it feels a little strange to be doing something simply because I _want_ it. I've spent my life telling people that they don't know who I am. But what if … what if the reason they don't understand me is because I've never let them _know_ who I am or what I want? Has that possibility – the possibility of simply doing what I want, _because_ it's what I want – always been there? Did it really take something like the Hunger Games for me to realize that?

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

We ate the rest of the bread. It was getting soggy from all the rain, so we simply ate it. Which could be good or bad, I suppose. On the one hand, it means that we're not as hungry. But on the other hand, it means that, eventually, we'll have to find more food, rather than rationing what we had. Clearly, someone didn't really think things through when they decided what sort of food to send us.

Or maybe … maybe they did. Maybe this is exactly what they wanted: to force us to eat what we had quickly, so that we'd have to find more. Maybe they figured that would move the Game along faster. And maybe they're right. Because I'm already trying to figure out how I'm going to be able to find more food.

Because if either of us is going to go out looking for food, it's going to be me. In her condition, Aubrey's not really in much of a position to _go_ anywhere. And while eating the bark from the trees might keep us going for a little while, eventually we're going to have to find something else. _I'm_ going to have to find something else.

But not right now. Not while it's cold and wet and raining. We still have enough food in our stomachs to keep us going for a little while. Certainly enough to last the night. We can worry about the rest in the morning.

"You should get some sleep," I suggest. "Maybe you'll feel better in the morning." Right. I know how stupid I sound. A broken leg isn't something that heals overnight. But I'm not really sure what else to say.

And Aubrey seems to appreciate the thought, at least. "Thanks." Slowly, she lies down and closes her eyes, wincing in pain as she does but trying not to show it. Trying not to remind me just how badly she's hurt. Just how much pain she's in. And just how little I can do to help.

That's the worst thing, really – not being able to do anything to help. Sure, I can bandage her leg. Try to keep her from having to move too much. Volunteer to take the first watch. But there's really nothing I can do about the pain. Nothing I can do to help her leg heal any faster. Nothing that I can do that will give her any real hope of surviving the Games.

Because, as much as I don't want to admit it – as much as we both might want to pretend that, as long as she has enough time to rest, she's going to be just fine – we both know that's not the case. There's no way she's going to survive. There's no way she's going to win. It's only a matter of whether her broken leg is going to kill her, or whether someone else is going to come along and finish the job first.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

They don't have anything. That much is clear just from watching the pair of them. They're cold, wet, tired, and probably just as hungry as I am. There's no reason for me to want to fight them. No reason for me to do anything but turn around and head back the other way, looking for someone who actually _has_ food that I can steal. And yet…

Every instinct is telling me that I need to attack. That I can't just walk away from a chance for a fair fight. Logically, there's no reason for me to fight. These tributes don't have anything I need. They didn't do anything to me. Even the fact that the girl – Aubrey – was a rebel … even that doesn't seem to mean much anymore. But when I look at her now, I don't see a rebel. I see a girl – a girl who's just as cold and tired and miserable as I am. I girl I have more in common with than I would have liked to admit before the Games. A girl who, if she had been born in District Two, might have ended up in the same place as me. And if I had been born in District Ten…

Then what? If I'd been born to rebel-supporters rather than my loyalist parents, what would have happened to me? Would I have ended up supporting the rebellion? Maybe. And that thought – the idea that I could have ended up just like her, and her just like me, if circumstances had been a little different – that thought makes me more uncomfortable than anything else in the Games so far. Because if my choices weren't choices at all – if they were determined by where I was born, and who I was born to – then how much of my life was already decided before I was even born? How much of it was actually my choice?

I grip my sword tightly amid the rain. Maybe I didn't get to choose where I was born, or who my family supported during the war. But I do have a choice now. I can choose whether or not I want to attack these two tributes. That's my choice. Mine.

Or is it? Because even though I know that these two never did anything to me, there's another part of me that knows that they're standing between me and District Two. That's not their fault. It was never their fault. But, sooner or later, they have to die if I'm going to go home. And, more than ever, I _do_ want to go home.

But I don't just want to go home. I want to go _back_. Back to the time when everything was simple. When I didn't have so many questions, so many doubts. When I knew what I was fighting for, and why. When I was willing to lay down my life for what I believed, not to kill innocent people because I just wanted to go home. I want my old life back.

But, at the same time, I know I'll never have it. That life is gone. The simplicity, the unwavering belief that my cause is just, the unquestioning obedience I had during the war … it's all gone. Even if I make it back home, there's a part of me that won't be going back. I can never go back to the way things were.

All I can do is try to survive this. Which means that the two tributes in the clearing have to die. It's only a question of when. If I want to survive this attack, is it better to strike now, or wait until one of them is actually asleep? That would certainly be better, but if I wait until _they're_ more tired, it also means that _I'll_ be more tired. Maybe I should get a little sleep myself first…

But, just as I turn around, ready to head away from the clearing and find somewhere to rest for a little while, I hear a noise. A low, growling noise coming from almost directly behind me. Then I can see it in the darkness. An animal – large and black against the night, its growl barely a whisper over the rain. But I can see its eyes, and the message comes through loud and clear. If I don't do something – if I don't attack – it's going to attack me.

Well, I guess that makes the decision an easy one.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

Before I can even fall asleep, Colt is shaking me awake. Pointing. Pointing towards one of the entrances to the clearing, where, once I sit up, I can see someone. Another tribute. A girl, I think. Coming towards us. Colt is shaking – and reasonably so. The girl's broadsword is shining in the rain and the moonlight, cold and deadly.

"Go," I whisper to Colt. "Get out of here." Maybe he has time. Time to run. Maybe if he runs, the girl will be too tired to chase him – or decide that I'm an easier target. Maybe he'll be able to make it.

Because that's the best I can hope for now. I'm no use in a fight. Even as I sit up, a wave of pain courses through my leg. I'm not going to be able to stand. All I can do is hope that Colt will be able to get away.

But he doesn't run. He simply stands there. For a moment, I think he's frozen, panicking, like he was when the girl from Three attacked. But then he reaches for the spear – the one that the girl from Three was using. And he turns to face the intruder.

I've never been more proud of anyone in my life. Or more afraid. Because this time, I won't be able to help him. He's on his own – in a fight against a girl who's both stronger and more prepared than he is. Because as the girl comes closer, I can see who it is. Gardenia, the girl from Two. A loyalist. A trained soldier. It's hard to imagine being face-to-face with a deadlier opponent in these Games.

But, to my surprise – and maybe even to his own amazement – Colt stands his ground as the girl comes closer. "Let her come to you," I whisper over the rain, and Colt nods. In the dark, with fallen trees all around, with the rain making everything slippery – there's much more advantage to staying put, waiting for your enemy to come to you, hoping they'll be the one to trip up. The moonlight filtering through the clouds is enough to see by, but only barely. If he can get her to make a mistake...

* * *

 **Colt Hawkins, 17  
** **District Ten**

If I can get her to make a mistake, I just might have a chance. In fact, it's probably the _only_ way I have a chance. I remember this girl from training. She's a trained Capitol soldier. She scored a ten during training. I got … what? A five or six? Funny, how even that's getting harder to remember. At the time, it seemed so important. It seemed like it defined our chances. How well we'd do during the Games. But now, training seems like it was so long ago.

And that score … it's just a number. How many tributes who scored better than me are already dead? How many who scored worse are still alive? Those scores didn't account for freak storms that would knock over trees. Those scores didn't tell us who would still have a partner who was alive after three days. Those numbers don't mean anything.

But if my score doesn't mean anything … then neither does hers. The girl from Two is limping a little as she makes her way closer. She's already injured. Maybe that gives me an advantage. And I know this clearing. She doesn't. Will that be enough to tip the balance?

I don't have any more time to wonder, because she's finally within striking distance. Her sword comes swinging at me. I dodge the first blow. The second catches the shaft of my spear – with much more force than I anticipated. I stagger backwards a little as her sword strikes with a crack. A crack that nearly splits the shaft of the spear in two.

 _Shit._ I wasn't counting on that. I was assuming that one weapon would be as good as another. That maybe a spear would even be better, because it was longer. I didn't consider the fact that it's made out of wood. I take a step backwards, then another, dodging another blow as I reach down to grab my dagger, instead. It's not as long as her sword, but at least it's not going to snap.

Okay. Okay, just think. But I don't have time to think. I barely have time to dodge another blow as my hand closes around the dagger's handle. I take another step backwards. Then another. The girl keeps glancing over at Aubrey, as if she's expecting her to make a move. Maybe she doesn't realize. Maybe she hasn't noticed that Aubrey's hurt.

Either way, she keeps her distance from where Aubrey's sitting, watching helplessly. Another blow, and then another. I manage to dodge them both, but even I can see what she's doing. She's driving me in the opposite direction. Away from Aubrey. Away from anyone who might be able to help me.

I can't keep running. I have to strike. I have to do _something_ , or she'll end up driving me out of the clearing completely. For a moment, I think maybe that's a good thing. Maybe I can run. Get her to chase me. Maybe she'll forget about Aubrey.

Then I see the animal. Some sort of four-legged creature, black and furry, guarding the exit that the girl is driving me towards. It snarls, its teeth showing, ridding me of any hope I had of running. I have to fight back. Fight back or be driven right into this animal's jaws.

I duck beneath the girl's next blow and strike as quickly as I can, but she catches the blow easily on her own blade, taking another step towards me as she does. I take a step back, then another. I can feel the creature's breath right behind me.

I duck again, diving for the girl's legs. She sidesteps, then swings her sword – quicker than I can react. The blade slices across my shoulder, cutting deep. I nearly drop my weapon as blood continues to gush from the wound.

She strikes again, and I barely have time to take a step back as the blade slices towards my chest. It grazes me – barely cutting through my shirt – but as I take a step back, I stumble on the wet ground. It's all I can do to catch myself before I fall, and, in that moment, her sword slices across my leg. My dagger falls from my hand as I crash to the ground, the girl standing over me.

* * *

 **Aubrey Ryans, 17  
** **District Ten**

Colt barely has time to scream before the girl's sword comes plunging towards his chest. As the cannon sounds, I grip my dagger tightly, trying to stand. But my legs won't respond. Maybe if I just lie still, the girl will forget I'm here…

But, as she turns towards me, drawing her sword out of Colt's lifeless body, I know I won't be that lucky. As she approaches, so does the creature behind her – some sort of large, black, cat-like animal, keeping pace with her as she strides forward. I clench my teeth tightly, determined not to scream. She won't even have to kill me. She can just let the creature do the job. Desperate, I fling my dagger in its direction, hoping to hit it. No such luck. It dodges easily, then keeps advancing.

But, just as I can feel the animal's breath on my face, the girl's sword comes down, slicing cleanly through the creature's neck. It collapses next to me, dead, as I stare up in shock. "Why?"

The girl shakes her head. "Didn't think I would get a better chance to kill it. There's enough meat there to last me the rest of the Games."

I nod. But there's something else in her eyes. The fact that she can eat the creature is just an excuse. Maybe she wanted to spare me a painful mauling. Maybe she just wanted to kill me herself. I don't know. Maybe I don't care. I clutch a branch of the tree I managed to prop myself up against, bracing myself for the end. Determined not to let her see how afraid I am.

Because now that it's come down to it, I am afraid. More afraid than I want to admit. I'm going to die. Here. Now. Colt is already dead. Everyone I ever cared for is dead.

And now I'm going to join them. I can see her sword coming towards me. Through me. Blood. So much blood, gushing out onto the sand. She draws the blade out again, covered in blood. My blood. Pain fills my body – but only for a few seconds. Everything starts to go cold. And I must be going crazy, because, for a moment, I think I hear her say, "I'm sorry."

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

"I'm sorry," I repeat as the girl's body slumps to the ground. A cannon sounds, and I sink to my knees, exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I just want to lie down and stay here for … hours. Days. The rest of the Games. Surely I've earned the right to rest – at least for a little while.

But these two … they'll be resting forever. I killed them. At least when I killed the girl from Eleven at the start of the Games, I was acting on instinct. I thought that someone was about to kill me. But this … this was a choice. I could have walked away, but I chose to kill. Maybe the other choice was being attacked by an angry cat-creature, but I could have chosen to fight it, instead. Maybe I would even have won.

I chose this, instead. I chose to fight. I chose to kill. And that choice will stay with me forever. I lie back on the ground, no longer caring that the wet sand is getting everywhere. My hands. My hair. My clothes. None of that matters. Even the aching in my stomach doesn't seem to matter so much anymore.

But it's that aching that finally makes me sit up again. Okay. I told the girl the animal would keep me fed for the rest of the Games. So that probably means I should give it a try. That's not why I killed it, though. The Gamemakers clearly meant for the girl to suffer. Wanted me to let the creature finish her off.

And, three days ago, maybe I would have. She was a rebel, after all. As far as I was concerned, she deserved whatever the Capitol had planned for her. But now … I couldn't. A quick death at my hands was the best she could hope for, so that's what I gave her. But I also knew that if I simply killed her, the creature could turn on me. So I had to kill it first – and come up with a good explanation for doing so.

So food it is. I don't have any way to cook the meat, but, right now, I'm not really in a position to be picky. So I grit my teeth, slice away a hunk of the creature's flesh, and let the rain wash away as much of the blood as possible. Then I take a bite.

It's not as bad as I thought. I thought eating raw meat would be disgusting. And maybe it would be, if I had another option. But right now? It's food. I eat as much as I can, and although my mouth is now full of the taste of blood, at least my stomach is full, too. Once the rain stops, maybe I'll be able to get a fire going, and I can roast some of the meat. But for now, this will have to do.

Last, I take care of the bodies, dragging them to one corner of the clearing, only to find that there's already another body there, near one of the entrances. One of the older girls – the girl from Three, I think. Did these two kill her?

That makes me feel a little better, somehow. At least these two had already killed. They were dangerous. They might have killed me, if I hadn't killed them first. That makes it seem a little better.

But only a little. The girl was injured. She wouldn't have been able to kill me. And the boy – he was terrified, even though he was doing his best to hide it. They were afraid. Just like me.

Because I _am_ afraid. Afraid of the Games, yes. Afraid of dying. But, now that the adrenaline from the fight is starting to wear off, I'm just as afraid of what I'm becoming. What I'll _have_ to become if I want to make it out of here alive.

Because, if I want to survive, these two won't be the last. I'll have to fight again. I'll have to kill again. I don't know how many more times. So I'll have to be ready. I'll have to get some rest now … while I still can. But, for the first time in a long time, I don't know if I'll be able to sleep.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

The cannons wake me just as I was finally starting to get some sleep. My eyes snap open, and I'm almost surprised there's no one standing over me with a weapon. In fact, there still doesn't seem to be anyone in the area. But I already know I'm going to have a hard time getting back to sleep.

Two more cannons. I don't even know how many that is anymore. How many of us are left? Ten? Less? Five? Only a few? I have no way of knowing. I lost count a while ago. But the cannons seem to be coming more and more frequently. More people are dying.

And I'm still alive.

That's the important thing, I suppose – regardless of how many of us are still alive. I'm still one of them. One of the people – one of the tributes – who still has a chance to win this thing. Who would've thought that a fifteen-year-old from District Eight would make it this far?

Then again, age doesn't seem to matter as much as I thought it would in here. Tullia was only twelve, and she was still alive less than a day ago. Until…

Until I killed her. Until I bashed her head in with a club. A club that's still covered in blood despite the rain. Maybe that's the real reason I keep expecting to wake to find someone standing over me, waiting to kill me. Because I already did the same to someone else.

She wasn't asleep, of course. She was trying to steal from me. But she wasn't trying to kill me. I don't think she _would_ have killed me. She just wanted food. She just wanted to live.

 _I_ just want to live.

Maybe that's what it comes down to, in the end. All the fighting, the killing, the struggle. It all boils down to that one basic fact, that one thing all of us in here have in common. We want to live. But only one of us will.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

Two more cannons. They woke me up a little while ago, and I don't know if I'm going to be able to get back to sleep. Elijah shakes his head. "I thought the rain might slow things down a little bit."

So did I. Who would want to be out hunting for other tributes and fighting in the rain? But someone apparently thought it was a good idea, because that's … what? Sixteen cannons? Seventeen? Eighteen? I'm not even sure anymore. But there can't be very many of us left.

And we're still alive – both of us. Elijah and me. But the fact that there are so few of us left doesn't seem to have dampened his trust. Because when I suggest that maybe he should get some sleep – since I know I won't be able to get back to sleep for a while – he lies down immediately and shuts his eyes.

Maybe he's just too tired to be suspicious. Maybe he figures that since I was willing to trust him to keep watch while I slept, he should do the same. Either way, it feels strangely … good. I didn't really expect anyone to trust me in the Games. Crescent certainly didn't. Not really. There was always an understanding between us. We each knew the other person was going to have to die in order for us to make it out alive.

The same is true now, of course. So why doesn't it seem to matter as much? It's not because I don't want to live. I do. But the fact that Elijah has to die in order for me to live … it doesn't scare me so much. Maybe because I've seen how easily people can die in here – and so has he. Maybe I've just stopped worrying about what's going to happen in the future, because I have so little control over it.

Maybe that's it. I had no control over what happened to Crescent. Elijah had no control over what happened to Clarisse. Neither of us had any control over the fire, or the rain, or anything else that's happening. So maybe it's better not to worry. If Elijah dies, I won't be able to change that. And maybe … maybe I don't really have any control over whether _I_ die, either.

That's a frightening thought. I always assumed that my life was in my own hands. I didn't rush into the marsh, so I didn't die when Crescent did. I dove into the water with Elijah, so I didn't die in the fire. Those things were in my control – at least a little. But what about all the other things that could kill me?

If Elijah had decided to kill me in my sleep, there would have been nothing I could do. If a couple of tributes attack us now, will we be able to fight them off? Or will there be nothing we can do to stop them from killing us? If a bolt of lightning strikes us in this storm, there won't be a damn thing we can do about it.

I shake my head. I'm getting paranoid. We haven't even seen any lightning. And the rain seems to be letting up a little. The worst of the storm is over. But the Games … they're still far from over. There are still enough of us left. Enough to last another day. Maybe more.

But not too much more, at the rate people have been dying. Another day – maybe two. Is that really all we have left? Is that all _I_ have left? Will I still be alive after another day or two?

* * *

 **Isaac Graves  
** **District Five Escort**

Seven tributes. Seven tributes left, and Icho is still one of them. However things play out in the next few days – or however long they have left in the arena – he's done quite well. He killed a tribute. He's still completely uninjured. He has food. And, maybe most importantly, he still has an ally. Someone who can help him stay alive.

Then again, Colt and Aubrey just proved that that doesn't always help. That sometimes having an ally can get you killed. If Colt had left a few hours ago when Aubrey told him to, he would still be alive. If he had run when they saw Gardenia coming, he would still be alive. He would feel guilty about it, of course, but at least he wouldn't be dead. That's the important thing. Isn't it?

But Icho – he never really struck me as the type to put his life on the line for an ally, anyway. When Crescent fell into the marsh, he could have tried to help her. But he put his own life first. As he should have. There's no reason to think he wouldn't do the same thing if something happened to Elijah. They both know only one of them can survive. They're not going to get themselves killed trying to help each other.

But the fact that there are two of them – that's still an advantage in any sort of fight. Especially because most of the other tributes are on their own now. Maverick is still alone in his clearing with the cacti. Kennedy is still alone, trying to get some sleep. And Gardenia is still alone, though none the worse off because of it. She still has a hurt leg, but she has three kills under her belt. She has food. And there's no one else in the same area. Maybe she's the tribute to beat.

Maybe she was always the tribute to beat. If she happens to find Icho and Elijah, would either of them have a chance? Or would they be cut down as easily as Aubrey and Colt? On the other hand, what about Sienna and Neblina? They have weapons now, but Sienna doesn't seem to want to use them. And Neblina … the only tribute she killed was practically dead already.

Of course, the same is true about Icho. Horario was almost dead when Icho and Crescent found him. And Kennedy … well, he managed to fight off a tiny, starving twelve-year-old girl. Maverick got lucky. Elijah bested an exhausted, disoriented girl running from a fire. Sienna's killed no one. Gardenia's really the only one left who's killed someone in a fair fight.

Well, as fair as that fight could be. Colt was afraid, but at least he was armed. He fought back. Aubrey … she never really stood a chance. Just like so many other tributes who have died.

These Games … they're not what I was expecting. I was expecting more fighting – more _fair_ fights – not tributes sneaking around, trying to steal food and kill each other in their sleep. It doesn't seem fair. It seems less like a game of courage and honor and more like a game of trickery and luck.

But maybe that's what it is. Maybe that's what it was always going to be. If they'd wanted a game of sheer brute force, they should have chosen soldiers. Instead, they chose children. Children are clever. Sneaky. Children find ways to get around the rules – or to bend them to suit their liking. They wanted children to fight, so they're going to fight like children. And children don't play fair.

Maybe we shouldn't have expected anything else.

* * *

 **Whew! Longest chapter yet. To be perfectly honest, it was originally supposed to be two separate chapters, but there wasn't a good place to split it, so ... one chapter it is.**

 **Congrats to Colt, who won the "Final Six" poll, and Maverick and Gardenia, who took a close second. Lincoln, Peter, and Tullia rounded out people's choices for the final six. Full results are up on the blog.**

 **And now that we're down to the final seven (wow!) our next poll is asking who you'd like the Victor to be. It's not likely to affect the outcome - we've had our Victor chosen for quite a while - but we'd like to know who people are partial to at this point, anyway.**


	32. Patience

**Patience**

" _Influence is largely a matter of … patience, I find."_

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

I don't know how I'll ever be able to get to sleep. The rain has started to die down, but everything is still too fresh. The rush of adrenaline from the fight. The memories of the blood. The look in their eyes. It's not … well, it's not what I imagined it would be.

At least it was a fight. The girl from Eleven at the start of the Games – she never even had a chance to fight back. At least these two had a chance to go down swinging. But still…

That doesn't make it any better. Doesn't change the fact that both of them are dead. I should feel satisfied – or at least relieved. But now that the relief of being alive has worn off, all I feel is tired. Exhausted. But I still know, deep down, that I'm not going to be able to sleep. Not without seeing their faces.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

I don't know how I'm going to be able to get to sleep. Not here, in the open, with my friends' bodies lying nearby. I thought about going somewhere else. Trying to find somewhere else to hide. But there's food here, and, at the moment, that's more important than an uneasy reminder of how many people are dead.

The other obvious option, of course, would be to move the bodies somewhere else. Somewhere out of sight. Out of mind. But I'm too tired. My back still stings where Silver's whip struck me. I bandaged my hand, but it's still throbbing, and I can barely move it. Everything is sore. Everything hurts. I don't have the strength to move the bodies anywhere.

But there's something else – something else that's stopping me from moving them. A thought. An idea. If someone finds me here, wouldn't it be better if they simply found a lot of bodies? Slowly, I crawl over to where Lincoln and Vance's bodies lay face-up, the rain washing them clean. Fighting back the churning in my stomach, I lie between them, nestle up against Vance's body, then pull Lincoln's body so it's lying partly on top of me.

If anyone finds me, hopefully all they'll see is three bodies. They'll assume that whoever killed us left. At least, that's what I'm hoping. Because I'm too tired to come up with anything else.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

I'm not sure which is worse – the tiredness or the hunger. I keep glancing over at Neblina, sleeping peacefully beside me at the edge of the clearing. We figured it was a good place to settle down for the night, but I didn't think either of us would actually be able to sleep after the long day. Not with the aching in our stomachs.

Apparently, I was wrong – about Neblina, at least. Her breathing is slow and even, her chest slowly rising and falling, almost rhythmically. How can she be sleeping so peacefully after what she's seen? After what she's done?

How can _any_ of us sleep? How will any of us ever be able to sleep again? Every time I close my eyes, I see Peter's face. The look of shock and terror in his eyes as the girl from Six ran him through with her spear. His body, burning behind me as I ran, unable to help him. Unable to save him.

I won't let that happen again. Maybe Neblina has to die if I want to go home, but I don't have to just _let_ it happen. If she dies – when she dies – it won't be because I failed to protect her. And that … maybe that's all the victory I need right now. I won't fail to protect her. I won't fail again.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

By the time Icho wakes me, the rain has stopped. It's surprising, really, how quickly I was able to fall asleep. And, sure enough, when I tell Icho to get some rest, instead, he's asleep almost immediately. I stand up and stretch a little, staring up at the sky – a sky that's now full of stars. That's the best sleep I've had since we entered the arena.

But, at the same time, I know it can't last – this peaceful feeling. It's the calm before the storm. The deep breath before the plunge. It's only a matter of time before things get ugly again.

Which is all the more reason, I suppose, to get as much rest as we can now, while things are going well. We have food. We have water. Things are about as good as we could have hoped for, so we might as well take advantage of that while we can. I smile a little as I watch Icho, his eyes closed peacefully, his chest rising and falling slowly with his breathing. If only things could stay this way. If only we could be safe here forever.

Because, as strange as it sounds, I do feel safe here. At least, as safe as I could possibly feel in the arena. And Icho … I just wish we could both survive this. He's been a good ally so far. Anywhere else, we might have been friends. Maybe we _are_ friends. But, still, I can't shake the thought from my head – the knowledge that this can't last forever. We can't stay friends forever. Eventually…

But not yet. Not now. For now, we can help each other. Watch each other's backs. Fight together. And hope that it doesn't come down to the two of us. Because if it did, I honestly don't know what I would do. What he would do. What the _Capitol_ would do if we didn't want to fight. What would they do to us?

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

I must have finally dozed off at some point, because when I wake again, the rain has stopped. The stars above are starting to fade, and there's a light growing in what I assume is the east. The sun is rising. Rising on our fourth day in the arena. And I'm still alive.

Slowly, I stand up. Stretch a little. I should get moving. I should be looking for food. For a better place to take shelter. Maybe even for other tributes – other tributes who might have food or better weapons. Every instinct is screaming at me to keep moving. To at least _look_ like I'm making progress.

But the truth is, I'm just so tired. It's been so long since I've had sleep that was actually _restful._ The idea of simply lying back down and closing my eyes again is just so inviting. If no one found me in the dark, what are the chances that someone is going to find me now that it's light out? There can't be that many of us left in the arena. What are the chances of someone _actually_ finding me?

Because whatever other tributes are left – they're almost certainly just as tired as I am. Unless there are groups left who have managed to sleep in shifts, like Carina and I did for a little while, then I doubt anyone else has gotten much sleep, either. They're probably just as exhausted as I am. No one will want to get moving this early in the morning. At least, that's what I'm counting on as I lie back down and close my eyes, hoping everyone else is doing the same.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

It's starting to get lighter by the time Elijah wakes me. The stars are beginning to fade. "Breakfast?" he suggests, pulling one of the dried beef strips from his pocket. I nod and do the same. Maybe we should avoid eating them as long as possible – they're the only food we have left, after all – but I _am_ hungry. Maybe I'll just eat one, and save the other for later.

Later. Assuming there _is_ a 'later.' Assuming we aren't both dead before we have a chance to eat another meal. I shake the thought from my head as I eat, but it's getting harder and harder to ignore. There are only a few of us left. "Were there any cannons while…?" I start to ask, but trail off. Surely a cannon would have woken me up, wouldn't it?

Elijah shakes his head. "Not since you went to sleep, no. I wonder how many…" He doesn't finish the sentence. But he doesn't have to. _I wonder how many people are dead,_ maybe. Or, _I wonder how many of us are left._ Either question is really hiding the same one: _I wonder how long it'll be before it's just us._

We're a long ways from that, of course. There are still plenty of other tributes who would have to die before it came down to the two of us. But the idea still isn't a pleasant one. I don't want to kill Elijah. I don't think he wants to kill me. But if it comes down to the two of us, we'll have to. Those are the rules. Rules we don't dare break.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

It's already starting to get lighter when I finally wake up. Sienna's still sitting next to me, wide awake. I sit up, stretching a little. "You should get some sleep."

Sienna shakes her head. "I don't think I'll be able to."

Neither did I. But I was so tired, I fell asleep almost as soon as I lay down. "You should try, anyway," I suggest. "Just close your eyes for a little while."

Sienna gives me a strange look. "Why do you care if I close my eyes?"

Only now that I've said it do I realize how suspicious that must have sounded. "I just meant, you should get as much rest as you can before … well, before something happens."

Sienna shakes her head stubbornly. "I'm fine."

Great. Just a few stupid words – that's all it took. Now she'll be tired for the rest of the day, afraid to close her eyes because she's worried about what I might do. Maybe that fear's not entirely unjustified – I did kill Clarisse in her sleep, after all – but if I'd wanted to kill Sienna, I could have done so already. Surely she has to know that.

And I'm sure she does. But knowing it and trusting me are two very, very different things. She doesn't trust me. Of course, do I really trust her? I trusted her enough to let her keep watch – that should count for something, right? But I guess … well, I guess it doesn't automatically earn me her trust. Maybe I shouldn't have expected anything else.

* * *

 **Mason Carys, 44  
** **Father of Gardenia Carys**

This isn't what I was expecting. It's only the fourth day of the Games, and there are seven tributes left alive. Only seven. Which means there are only six tributes who have to die in order for Gardenia to come home. It's almost over, no matter which way this goes. Whether she lives or…

No. Stop it. I can't start thinking like that. She's going to make it. She made it this far. She's killed three tributes – more than anyone else who's still alive. And more than anyone at all, except the girl from Seven. She has food and water. She's armed. And there aren't any other tributes in her area.

I'm not sure whether that's good or bad, to be honest. All of the tributes are rather spread out now. On the one hand, that means none of them are likely to find Gardenia and kill her while she's sleeping. But on the other hand…

On the other hand, it means the other tributes aren't likely to find each other and kill each other off for her. Eventually, they'll have to get moving. Eventually, the Gamemakers will probably find some way to force them together – something like the storm, or the panther mutt, or the fire that drove some of them in the same direction. Until then, everyone will just have to be patient.

* * *

 **Ilene Maleri, 16  
** **Sister of Elijah Maleri**

Patience was never exactly Elijah's strong suit. So maybe I shouldn't be surprised that he's pacing around their little clearing almost as soon as he and Icho finish their breakfast. He's been on the move for most of the Games. Leaving Clarisse, coming back to her, chasing after what he thought was her killer, running from the fire – he really hasn't had a chance to stop and rest.

Neither has Icho, I suppose. Maybe that's why they make such a natural pair. Icho is on his feet almost as soon as Elijah is, ready to get moving. But get moving where? For the first time, they don't really seem to have much of a goal. There are no footprints to follow – the rain washed even theirs away. They have food and water, so there's no point in going hunting for those. The only reason to go anywhere is to look for other tributes, but do they have any idea where to start?

They have no way of knowing, of course, that almost any direction would lead them to _someone._ Gardenia is to their east. Sienna and Neblina are back in the center of the arena. Kennedy is to the south, Maverick to the southeast. The only direction they could go and _not_ find someone is northwest, towards the section of the arena the fire already destroyed.

Naturally, that's the first direction they rule out, reasoning that any tributes in that direction are probably dead by now. A reasonable assumption. But also a telling one. They've realized the obvious – they have to go looking for tributes. They can't be content with avoiding a fight. Eventually, they'll have to stop waiting for the fight to come to them. Sooner or later, they'll have to go out and find it. And, from the look of things, it's going to be sooner.

* * *

 **Rana Thesik, 41  
** **Mother of Icho Thesik**

I'm honestly not sure what to make of it all. What to make of their choice to go looking for tributes. On the one hand, I know it could bring the Games to and end sooner. And that would be good. Because either Icho would be home, or…

Or dead. But even if he comes home, will he want anything to do with me? For a while, when he was talking to Crescent about me, I thought maybe … maybe he was ready to forgive me. Maybe the idea of having _any_ family – even a mother who abandoned him and his father out of fear during the rebellion – was starting to appeal to him. That maybe – just maybe – if he came home, he would be willing to accept me.

But now … now I'm not so sure. Because if the Games have proven anything, it's that each and every one of the tributes who's still alive has learned how to make it on their own. Even the younger ones like Maverick, Neblina, and Kennedy have managed to survive. If Icho comes back, will he want me to help him? Or will he simply say what he's said for the past year: that he doesn't need any help?

Maybe … maybe he doesn't. Maybe it was silly of me – presumptuous, even – to think that he did. He's managed pretty well so far. Maybe … maybe _I'm_ the one who needs _him._ If he comes home – if he survives – I'll have to tell him that. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe he'll be able to forgive me. I just … I just hope he gets the chance.

* * *

 **Colonel Arthur Shields, 63  
** **District One Citizen**

I never thought Maverick had a chance. Not really. When he volunteered, I figured he was just doing it so that he could get a few warm meals and clean clothes before he died. But I have to admit, he's done pretty well for himself. His parents would be proud.

They'd probably be a bit surprised, too – and maybe even a little impressed by his latest trick. Hiding himself with the dead bodies of his allies … that's certainly not something either of them would have thought of. Malcolm and Vivian were rather by-the-book soldiers. They believed in hard work. Dedication. Honor. Fighting fair. And it got them killed. They never suspected there was a spy in their regiment – not until it was too late.

Then again, I can hardly fault them for that – not when I didn't realize Maverick was their son until it was too late. It wasn't until he was already onstage, volunteering for the Games, that I even knew their son was still alive. I didn't recognize him until he said his name – and, even then, I wasn't certain. Everyone used to call him May. I tried to tell myself it wasn't him. Couldn't be him. That someone would certainly have taken Malcolm and Vivian's son in after their deaths.

Now … I just hope he makes it. But, despite his clever trick with the bodies, I have to admit that things don't look good. He's injured. He's tired. He's the youngest tribute left in the arena. And he's alone. It's only a matter of time before one of those things catches up with him.

* * *

 **Holli Poplar, 10  
** **Sister of Sienna Poplar**

It's only a matter of time before she'll have to fight. Before she'll have to kill. Part of me knows that. But there's another part – a much larger part – that's proud of Sienna. Proud that she's been able to make it this far without killing. Maybe she wasn't able to save Peter, but at least there's no blood on her hands. She's not playing their game.

Our parents would be proud of that – I'm sure about that much, at least. They fought in the war, yes. But they fought against the Capitol. Against everything the Capitol stood for – the power, the control, the selfishness that the Capitol embodies. The disregard for the lives of people in the districts. Now Sienna's doing the same thing – except she's fighting the Capitol by _not_ fighting.

But I can't help wondering how long that can last. What she's done so far is impressive, but we all know that if she's going to make it home, she'll eventually have to kill. It's only a matter of when, and who, and whether she'll be able to handle it.

I just hope she can. Because everyone who's left … it's not like their hands are clean. Everyone else has killed. She's made her point. She's lasted this long without killing. If she starts killing now … is that really giving in? Or is that simply doing to the other tributes what they've already done? That's fair, isn't it? I'm not really sure. I don't know whether it's fair or not – whether it's right or not. I just know that I want my sister back.

* * *

 **Roseann Ford, 40  
** **Mother of Kennedy Ford**

I just want my son back. Until then, none of the rest matters. It's not that it doesn't _matter_ that he killed a twelve-year-old girl, but what he did, he did to survive. People will understand that – won't they? I do. Sure, I'm his mother, but anyone watching the Games knows he did what he had to do. Maybe he did it a little more brutally than he had to – bashing her with his club like that – but it's the weapon he had.

It's the weapon he chose. At the start of the Games, he could have grabbed something else. But he chose a club. He chose something primitive – maybe because he realized, even then, that that's what the Games really are. That's what they really do. They tear away everything else – everything civilized – leaving the tributes with only their most basic instincts to rely on. Leaving them with the need to survive, and little else.

So is it a surprise, really, that they all seem a bit more … savage now? Even the few who are left working with a partner – they're not the same partners they started the Games with. Elijah started with Clarisse, Icho with Crescent, Sienna with Peter. They're all dead – their partners. And Neblina – she started with no one.

I glance over at her family. We've been watching the Games together, relieved that they're both still alive after three days. Her mother, sister, and her friend Amelia are huddled together, watching the screen. Just like us. They want their daughter, their sister, their friend back – maybe as badly as I want my son. Maybe as badly as every family across the districts wants their loved ones back. But only one family is going to get that wish.

* * *

 **Amelia Torres, 19  
** **Friend of Neblina Acosta**

Only one family is going to get what they want. I have to remind myself of that as I watch Kennedy's parents, huddled together, their eyes fixed on the screen despite the fact that Kennedy – along with most of the other tributes – is still sleeping soundly. Don't get me wrong – I'm glad both of them are still alive. Who would have thought that District Eight, of all places, would be the only district that _didn't_ lose a tribute in the first three days of the Games.

But the Games aren't over yet. They're not over until only one tribute is left standing. And, as sorry as I feel for Kennedy's family, I still want that tribute to be Neblina. And that means that Kennedy – their son – has to die. So do the other tributes, of course, but being here with Kennedy's family … that makes it a bit more real.

And if that makes it real, I can only imagine what it's like actually _being_ in the arena. Being not with the _families_ of the tributes who have to die, but with the actual _people_ who have to die in order for you to make it home. I figured Neblina had the right idea at the start – not teaming up with anyone. Not getting attached. But now that she's with Sienna…

Maybe that'll be good. Maybe not. I have no way of knowing – and neither does she. We can only wait and see how that decision will play out. We'll have to be patient.

But I don't want to be patient. Now that it's come down to it – now that there are only seven of them left – I just want it to be over … one way or the other. If Neblina's coming home, I want her back now. And if she's not … well, maybe it's better that it's over sooner. But, for now, the tributes don't seem to be in any hurry.

* * *

 **President Augustus Hale**

"The tributes don't seem to be in much of a hurry to find each other," I point out as Minerva and I watch the screen. Even Noelle, who took a break for a few hours to get some much-needed sleep, doesn't have much to report as she returns to the screen. The tributes have been sleeping soundly. Which is good, I suppose – they'll be well-rested and ready for another day – but even now that the sun is starting to rise again, the tributes don't seem too eager to get started.

It's hard to blame them for that, of course. It's been three days – three days of fighting and running and hiding and hoping not to be found. Three days of hunger and thirst and trying to recover from their injuries. Some of them are in bad shape, and even those who aren't are pretty exhausted.

And now they're so far spread apart, it'll be impressive if any of them actually manage to find each other. All the footprints have been washed away. And no one seems to want to move from the relatively safe hiding places they've found. Even Icho and Elijah are still stalling, trying to figure out which way to go.

Minerva smiles a little, giving me a pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I have something planned."

Of course she does. There's a reason the Games are in her hands – not mine. She always has something up her sleeve. She blows me a kiss as she heads back into the control room. "Enjoy the show."

* * *

 **Yep, no deaths this time. Makes up for the three last chapter.**

 **On that note, we'd like to reply to the review that a guest left us. (Actually, we'd prefer to reply privately by PM, but since the review was left anonymously, we can't. So this'll have to do.) Basically, the question was, "Could you explain why you killed Colt like that?" The answer is yes. Yes, we can.**

 **Short, rather unsatisfying answer: Because we can. And because this is the Hunger Games. Tributes die - that's how it works.**

 **Longer answer: First of all, we're thrilled that you care so much about a character. In fact, we take it as high praise. So please don't think for a moment that we're upset with your review. We're flattered.**

 **As people may have noticed from the chapter quotes, we've been trying to borrow some pages out of George R.R. Martin's book - most significantly, the idea that anyone can die at any time. Trained soldiers can get blown off their pedestals in the bloodbath. People can get stabbed through walls and fall into marshes. Bravery can get people killed, and cowards can live longer than people would like. Not everyone's character arc gets wrapped up with a nice, neat little bow.** **Why? Because we're trying to make things as realistic as possible.**

 **You've also got a point about bravery not being bravery if there's no other choice. Which is why Colt's 'brave' moment wasn't when he decided to attack Gardenia rather than the mutt. It was when he decided to stay in the clearing and fight, even after Aubrey told him to run. He was brave. And it got him killed. Sometimes that's the way it goes.**

 **You're also right that Colt's consistent popularity in the polls meant people wanted to see more of him. He was a favorite because he was so real, and that's one of the reasons we thoroughly enjoyed writing him. But this isn't a popularity contest. Only two of people's top six choices in the most recent poll are still alive. We care about people's opinions - and we appreciate you sharing them - but that doesn't determine how the story's going to progress.**

 **We hope that's a good enough answer. If you've still got questions, feel free to shoot us a PM - or leave a review with a name that we can PM back - so that we don't need to keep cluttering up the end of the chapter with responses to reviews. We don't bite. :)**


	33. Dead

**Dead**

 _Surely the dead can wait._

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

Elijah and I are still trying to figure out which direction to go when Noelle's voice booms through the arena. "Attention, tributes! Congratulations on surviving three days in the arena! As a reward for your success, we have prepared a feast. It will commence in an hour in the clearing where the Games began, and each of you is invited to attend. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

I glance over at Elijah, who raises an eyebrow. "A feast?" I repeat. "So they're sending more food?"

It's Elijah who points out the obvious. "But not just to us. They're trying to lure everyone in – to the same place. And whoever survives gets the food."

Clever. It's been three days. Whatever tributes are left are probably spread thinly across the arena. Luring us together with the promise of food … it'll probably work. Especially if there are still tributes who haven't found any.

There's silence for a moment before I ask the question on both of our minds. "So … do we go?"

Elijah doesn't have an immediate answer. "At the start of the Games, I would have said no," he admits. "When I saw the weapons in the middle of the arena, both Clarisse and I figured it would be better to wait. To come back later, once everyone else was gone, and pick our weapons then. We figured that was better than rushing into a fight."

I nod. I did the same thing. Ran away, and came back later for a weapon, once I figured it would be safe. But it's hard to miss the hesitation in Elijah's voice. "But…" I prompt.

He shakes his head. "But that was three days ago. There were still twenty-four of us left. And there were plenty of weapons – enough for everyone to take some, and still leave plenty for those of us who might come later. We have no way of knowing how much food they're sending."

"They said it was a feast," I point out.

Elijah chuckles a little. "And you want to just take their word on that?"

Of course not. I didn't mean to suggest – even for a moment – that we could trust anything the Capitol says. They could say they're going to provide us with a feast, and then send us a few loaves of moldy bread. But, by that logic…

"We're taking their word that they're sending any food in the first place," I remind him. "That it's not just a trick to draw us all together."

That makes him think twice. We still have food, after all. It's not much, but it's more than some of the other tributes might have. Probably more than _most_ of them have, if the Capitol thinks that an offer of food will lure enough tributes together.

Elijah considers that for a moment. But when he speaks again, it's clear he's decided. "I'm going. You can stay here, if you want. But I'd … I'd be glad to have the company."

And there it is. The real choice. Go, or lose him as an ally. Go, or look like a coward compared to a kid from District Twelve. There's no real choice. No choice at all.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

Maybe that was a bit unnecessary. Maybe it was even cruel. But we could stand here all day going back and forth, trying to figure out whether the Capitol is actually planning to send us food – and how much – or whether they're just trying to trick us. The truth is, it could be either one. And we won't know unless we go and find out.

So I go. Icho follows. Of course he does. The promise of food weighed against the possibility of losing my help – and looking like a coward in front of the entire audience – there's no real choice there. So we head back in the direction of the clearing. Or, at least, what I'm pretty sure is the direction of the clearing. We're heading away from the charred patches of ground where the fire tore through the arena, so I assume we're moving in the right direction.

But if we went the other way…

"Have you seen an edge to the arena?" I ask suddenly.

Icho glances up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean this maze – it has to end somewhere. Have you seen anything that looked like the end?"

It takes a moment for Icho to realize why I'm asking. "You think the fire burned through the walls at the end – that we might be able to get out."

Yes. That's what I was thinking. But I certainly wouldn't have said it out loud. I shrug, trying to make light of it. "I was just wondering."

Icho shakes his head. "Not a good idea."

"What makes you say that?"

"The boy I killed – back on the first day – I think he was trying to get out. We found a wall that was higher than the others. Crescent and I – we figured it might be the edge of the arena. Then we found him. The boy from Six, lying on the ground, dying. He had burns on his hands, like he'd tried to climb the wall, and … and maybe there was something electric at the top, like a wire. He was trying to escape, but … well, it wouldn't be much of a fight to the death if we could all just run away from the fight."

He's right, of course. The Gamemakers would have to be stupid not to plan ahead in case there was a fire or something at the edge of the arena. There might be wires buried under the ground, ready to shock anyone who tries to cross them. There could be mines. Or they could simply send a hovercraft to shoot down anyone who tried to escape. They would be stupid not to.

And I was stupid to consider the possibility. Stupid … or maybe just desperate. Desperate for a way we could both make it out of here alive. A way we could both survive. Because heading back to the clearing … it probably means a fight. A fight we might not live through. And despite all my brave talk about going down fighting and taking the other tributes with me … I don't want to die.

That's all it comes down to in the end: I don't want to die. And that's what they're counting on – the Gamemakers. They're counting on us not wanting to die. Counting on the fact that we'll be willing to kill each other if it means we get to live. And they're right. Whoever's waiting for us back in the clearing, I know we can't hesitate. We have to be ready to fight whoever's there. To kill them. And maybe … maybe even to kill each other.

No. No, I'm not ready to think about that. If we both make it through the next hour or two alive, then we can worry about each other. But I don't even want to think about what might happen if it comes down to the two of us. I don't want it to. I don't want to kill Icho. But, even more than that – and that's what they're counting on – I don't want him to kill me.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

I'm not going. I know what they're trying to do. It's obvious. They're trying to lure us all together, make it easier for us to kill each other. But I'm not going to take the bait – not yet, anyways. I have plenty of food, thanks to the cat-like creature I killed. I can afford to wait. Wait for them to kill each other off, and then…

And then what? Pick off the survivors? Yes. That sounds like a good plan. I'll wait to see if their plan works – if they really do start killing each other. If I start to hear cannons, I'll get moving. But for now, I can wait.

So I slice off another hunk of meat and start eating what I suppose is breakfast. I wish I could cook it, but it's still far too wet to start a fire. Everything is soaked – including me. Including the bodies nearby. I moved them to the other side of the clearing, but I can already see flies gathering around them. It's only a matter of time before I'd have to leave, anyway – just to get away from the smell.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

The bodies are starting to smell. I suppose I should have expected that. But, despite the stench, I can't seem to make myself sit up. It's so easy to just lie here, waiting. Easier than moving. Easier than answering their summons to a feast. I have plenty of food – plenty of cactuses. And if I went, chances are, I'd only get myself killed.

But I'll have to get up eventually. I'll have to get moving. I can't just lie here forever – not if I want to win.

I close my eyes, taking in the sun's warmth – the same warmth that's beginning to make the bodies reek. _If I want to win._ Did I ever really believe that – that I was going to win? I must have thought I had some sort of chance. Or maybe … maybe I just wanted a little comfort before I died. A little of the luxury, the civilization, the _humanity_ that I'd been lacking for so long.

But now … whatever humanity I may have found back in the Capitol – it's gone now. There's no humanity in the arena. Silver proved that. And whatever luxury I may have enjoyed – the good food, the clean clothes, the warm beds – all of that is gone, as well. Maybe it's time to let all of that go. Time to just lie here and let it end.

That would be easier. It would be so easy to just stay here. My whole body is stiff. Everything hurts. I can barely move my hands. What chance do I really have in a fight? Maybe it's better to just lie here. It's not as if I have anything to go back home to. My parents are dead. My grandmother is dead. I have nothing. No one. No one who would miss me. No one who would care.

So why should I? Why should I care whether I live or die? If it feels better to simply lie here and wait for the end, then maybe that's exactly what I should do. I don't have anyone else to answer to. Anyone else to think about. Lincoln, Vance, my family … they're all dead. All gone. Maybe it would be better if I joined them.

* * *

 **Kennedy Ford, 15  
** **District Eight**

I don't even see the dead bodies at first. All I see is the cactuses. A few of them have been cut into, revealing the edible skin behind the spikes. I almost burst out laughing. The Capitol promised a feast back in the clearing where the Games began, but the _real_ feast is here. I was just thinking about starting to make my way back to the center of the arena – even though I knew every other tribute would be heading there looking for food – when I saw _this._

Then I see the bodies. Four of them, in the center of the clearing. Three lying face-up in a pile, one off to the side, face-down. A couple of knives lie nearby. Hesitantly, I approach and choose one of the knives. Whoever killed these four … where did they go? Why would they head for the center of the arena when there's plenty of food here?

Or maybe … maybe they killed each other. Is that why three of them are in one pile? Maybe the girl arranged them, and then died of her injuries. Or maybe someone killed them, took some food, and left – figuring this was too open a place to stay. Too exposed. Or maybe…

Maybe they're still here. I glance around the clearing, then walk around cautiously, looking behind every cactus. There doesn't seem to be anyone else here. Just me and four dead bodies that are starting to smell.

So I choose a spot far away from the bodies and start carving into one of the cactuses, glancing around every now and then to make sure no one's coming. No one does. Most likely, the rest of the tributes are all headed to the center of the arena, not realizing that there's plenty of food right here. Right under their noses.

The cactus is delicious. Juicy. Almost sweet. And a lot better than the soggy bread that I stole from the other two tributes. That seems so long ago now. So long since I've had someone by my side – someone to work with, someone to talk to. It even seems like a long time since I killed the girl from Twelve. It was only yesterday, but it seems like ages ago. Lifetimes ago. But I can still see her face. Still hear her screams. Still feel her blood on my hands.

Blood. Suddenly, there _is_ blood. And pain. Pain in my back. Blood dripping down onto the sand. I turn in time to see him – a boy, no bigger than the girl I killed, barely managing to clutch a knife in his injured hands. But it's enough, because that knife is now covered in my blood. He steps back – back towards the other four bodies.

No. Not the other four. The other three. He was one of them, I realize as my body slumps to the ground. Limp, helpless – just like she was. I ended up just like her. I ended up just like…

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

I wasn't expecting a cannon. Not this soon. Not when Neblina and I haven't even seen anyone coming. They'll all be coming, of course – the other tributes, however many of them are left. They'll be coming back here. Back to the center of the arena. To find food.

That's what I would do, at least. Then again, we have no way of knowing whether the other tributes are in the same position we are. I've had nothing but some snake eggs for three days. Neblina – she's had it even worse. We're both weak from hunger. We can only hope the other tributes are in the same position.

Because leaving … it's not an option. The Gamemakers chose this spot for their feast for a reason. They want to draw the other tributes to us. Maybe they're trying to give us an advantage. Maybe it was simply the only spot they were certain the tributes would be able to find. Maybe it doesn't matter. Whatever the reason, we have an advantage. We have time to prepare.

And we've been using it. Neblina and I tucked the weapons we found – the ones we aren't using – back into the walls. If they aren't already armed, any tributes who come this way will have a hard time finding weapons. We chose a hiding place on one side of the clearing. We thought about splitting up, trying to cover all the entrances. But there are only two of us. And we have no way of knowing which direction the other tributes might be coming from.

And now … now I have to wonder if they're even coming. Because that cannon – it didn't come from here. Could the tributes have started to gather somewhere else? I didn't hear anything nearby – no screams or shouts, nothing to suggest that any other tributes are nearby. But someone is dead. Someone died a moment ago, and it didn't have anything to do with us.

Maybe it didn't have anything to do with _anyone_. Maybe someone was already hurt – by another tribute, or by the fire that we ran from – and finally died from their injuries. Maybe someone was bitten by a snake.

A snake. It seems so long ago that a snakebite was the biggest worry I had. The biggest worry _we_ had – Peter and I. I glance over at Neblina. She doesn't seem worried. In fact, she's almost … smiling. Strange. But maybe not so strange. The idea of food … it _does_ sound good. And if none of the other tributes are coming…

Then I see them – on the other side of the clearing. Damn it, they came from the other direction. Two boys – from Five and Twelve, I think. Icho and Elijah. They haven't seen us yet. At least, I don't think they have. They enter the clearing cautiously. Slowly. They don't really want to be here. They don't really want to fight. But they want food.

Just like us.

I take a deep breath and step into the clearing. "What are you doing?" Neblina hisses, but I keep moving. The boys see me. There was no way I was going to be able to sneak up on them. No way we would have the element of surprise – not once I realized which direction they were coming from. Chances are good that this will end in a fight. But if we can avoid it…

"We don't have to do this," I call. "They're sending food – a feast. Enough for all of us. We can share." I know how stupid the words sound. How naive. There are only a few tributes left. Seven or eight, maybe. But I have to try. I don't want to kill them. I just want food…

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

She doesn't want to fight. I can't really blame her for that. The girl looks exhausted as she approaches. She's holding a weapon – a rapier, much like the one in Elijah's hand – but she doesn't look ready to use it. She just wants food.

I swallow hard, fighting back a lump in my throat. She's offering us a way out. A way to avoid doing exactly what the Capitol wants. I want to take it. Maybe I _should_ take it. But there's a part of me that knows I won't. I can't. If I want to win, she has to die. This girl, who doesn't want to fight, who doesn't want to be here any more than I do.

Any more than I do. I don't want to be here. I never wanted to be here. I glance over at Elijah. He doesn't want to be here, either. He's no loyalist, and neither am I. My father fought in the rebellion. The girl in front of me … I remember that her parents are dead. Did they die fighting the Capitol, like my father?

We have no reason to fight each other. No reason to kill each other. I don't want to do this. I never wanted to do this. _None_ of us want to do this.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

None of them want to do this. None of _us_ , I suppose. I don't want to fight any more than they do. Sienna looks like she's ready to turn tail and run at the first sign of an actual fight, even if it means abandoning any hope of getting food. Not that I blame her. How much of a chance do the two of us have in a fight against the two boys?

But they don't exactly seem like they want to fight, either. The older boy – Elijah, I think – is fingering his rapier, but the other boy's sickle is pointed at the ground. They seem to be seriously considering Sienna's offer to simply share whatever food the Capitol is planning on sending. To leave the fighting for later.

And maybe … well, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea, if I thought the Capitol would actually allow it. What none of them seem to realize – at least not yet – is that they haven't actually _sent_ anything yet. It's been more than an hour, I'm pretty sure, since the announcement. They're probably waiting for us. Waiting to see if we'll actually fight before sending us anything. Fighting may be the only way to get them to _send_ food.

I don't think they've seen me yet – the boys, that is. Neither of them is looking in my direction. But it's only a matter of time before they see me. Before they realize that Sienna isn't alone. Once they realize I'm here, what will they think? Will they realize that we're working together? Will they think that she was simply trying to distract them while I moved in for the kill?

Maybe that's exactly what I should do. If only there was a way I could signal to her. Get her to circle around so the boys would have their backs to my. If only we'd thought of that before. Why didn't we plan for this?

The answer's a simple one, of course. We were trying to think of ways to defend ourselves, not attack other tributes. But, eventually, those two are the same thing. These two boys have to die in order for one of us to live. In order for _me_ to live. There is no _us_. There can't be. Not if I want to survive this. They have to die. All of them. Both of the boys … and Sienna.

 _Okay. Think. Just think._ Slowly, I slip behind the wall. There are still a few weapons tucked inside, within arm's reach. One of them is a bow. I never practiced with one of those. I don't know if I can hit either of them. But maybe…

Maybe I don't have to. Maybe a shot – whether it hits or not – will be enough to get things started. Slowly, I slide the bow out of the wall, along with a quiver of arrows. I set an arrow to the string and peek around the corner of the wall. I draw back the string.

One of the boys sees me – just as I let the arrow fly. The shot goes wild, nowhere near any of them. But that's okay, because now they're charging towards me.

And Sienna leaps in the way.

* * *

 **Sienna Poplar, 18  
** **District Nine**

What was she _thinking_? My mind races as I leap between the boys and the exit where I know Neblina is standing. Waiting. Why couldn't she just _wait_ a little longer? I'd almost persuaded them not to fight.

Hadn't I?

Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe fighting was inevitable. Maybe she was smart enough to realize that. Either way, I step between her and the charging boys as she lets another arrow fly. This one misses again, but not by as much. One of the boys swings his rapier.

I catch the blade on my own, standing between him and his real target. Neblina is still a good twenty yards or so behind me. Still safe – as long as I can keep the fighting here. As long as I can keep the two of them focused on me.

So I do. I strike out at one, then the other. But there are two of them. My rapier slices across the older boy's arm just as the younger boy's sickle finds my back. I turn, lashing out blindly, but he's already stepped back, allowing the other boy to charge. I manage to block his rapier, but not the knife. The knife that buries itself in my chest.

But, even as the boy draws the knife out again, blood coating the blade, another arrow comes flying. This one strikes him in the chest. He staggers backwards, bewildered, and I smile as my body sinks to the ground. Everything is getting darker. Blurry. I just hope … I hope Neblina has the sense to run.

* * *

 **Elijah Maleri, 18  
** **District Twelve**

The younger girl is running – I can see that much out of the corner of my eye as the older girl's cannon sounds. Were they working together? They must have been. The way the older girl leapt in the way to protect the younger one – they must have been allies. Friends. Like me and Clarisse. Me and Icho.

Icho. It's only now, as I sink to my knees, the arrow still embedded in my chest, that I realize he's not chasing after the girl. He's standing here, beside me. Just as shocked as I am. Maybe more. There's an arm around my shoulder as he eases me to the ground. I lean back against him, gasping. I think that arrow – I think it went through my lung. That would explain why – why I can't breathe. Why everything hurts.

Icho's eyes are frightened as they meet mine. "What do I do?"

The obvious answer, of course, is that there's nothing he can do. Nothing he should even _want_ to do. If I die – no, _when_ I die – that's better for him … Isn't it? Maybe he doesn't want me to die, but surely there must be a part of him, somewhere in the back of his mind, that realizes that I _have_ to, in order for him to make it home.

And if I can't – no, _since_ I can't – make it home, back to my family, then … then I guess I want him to. I clutch the arrow tightly, as if that will somehow take away the pain that's rushing through my chest. Is this how Clarisse felt, when I left her to die? Now I understand – why she was so snappy, why she lashed out, why she couldn't say that she just wanted me to stay. She was in too much pain. She knew she was dying.

And now … now I know the same thing. But I'm luckier, I guess, because Icho isn't showing any signs of leaving. He let the other girl run away. I guess he can take care of her later. One of his hands slips gently around mine. "Tell me what to do." His voice is pleading. Desperate. He wants to save me. Maybe he just doesn't realize that he can't.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

I know I can't save him. But I can't help asking, all the same. The same question that I would have asked my father, if he had been alive when I came home to find the Peacekeepers standing over him. _What do I do? What_ can _I do? How do I fix this?_

But there's nothing I can do. No way to fix this. Elijah's breathing is growing more ragged with each gasping breath. His hand goes limp in mine. His eyes – they're becoming more unfocused. Staring past me, into the distance. As if he sees something.

Maybe he does. I always wondered – ever since my father died – if there is something … after. I grasp Elijah's hand tightly. "Please don't…"

Don't what? Don't die? But he's going to. He _has_ to. He _always_ had to, if I was going to go home. Maybe now … now's as good a time as any. Maybe this is better than us being forced to fight each other. Elijah shakes his head a little. "I'll … I'll see…"

See what? Did he lose someone in the war, too? I never really thought about it … or about how little I really know about him. We were just getting to know each other. Just starting to become friends. And now…

"What do you see?" I ask, swallowing back the lump in my throat.

Elijah smiles a little. "I'll see you on the other side." He closes his eyes. His head droops back into my arms. A moment later, the cannon sounds. He's dead.

She killed him.

For a moment, nothing else matters. The fact that she probably felt like she had no choice – it doesn't matter. The fact that he was about to attack her doesn't matter. The fact that he had just killed her ally – none of that is important. She killed him. She killed my friend. And now she's going to pay.

Just as I stand up, however, something comes floating down out of the sky. No, _more_ than one something. At least a dozen parachutes, each attached to a small bundle. It takes me a moment to realize what's happening. To remember why we came to the clearing in the first place. The Capitol promised a feast. And here it is.

It wasn't worth it.

But I open each of the packages, anyway. There's some bread. Some dried fruit. Some strips of beef. Nothing worth killing for. Nothing worth dying for. But all of us were willing to kill for the chance at even a little food. Is that what we've been reduced to? Animals fighting over a few scraps?

I eat as much as I can and stuff the rest in my pockets. I have to get out of here. There's no telling whether any other tributes will be headed this way. Maybe … maybe I should leave a little. Not out of kindness – no, there's no time for kindness. But because my tracks are about to lead out of the clearing. Anyone will be able to follow me. But if I leave them a little food … maybe they won't have a reason to.

So I leave a little. Enough for them to get by – whoever finds the parachutes. And then I follow the other set of tracks. The girl's set of tracks. I'm going to find her. I'm going to kill her. Maybe that's no better a motivation than food was. Maybe that makes me just as much of an animal as the rest of the tributes. But right now, none of that matters. Elijah is dead. It's her fault. That's all that matters.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

It's my fault Sienna's dead. I didn't kill her, of course – not personally – but I shot the arrow that started the fight. She was trying to protect me. She was trying to save me.

And the worst part is … I knew she would. I was counting on it. Counting on _her_. Maybe even _using_ her. That should make me feel terrible. Guilty. Inhuman. But, instead, it feels … I don't know. Empowering, almost. Like I could do anything. Take on anyone.

But even though I might _feel_ that way, my brain obviously knows that I can't. Because I'm still running. Running away from the boy – the boy from Five. The boy whose ally – whose _friend_ – I killed.

I wasn't sure, at first – that he was dead, that is. I heard Sienna's cannon, but the boy … I guess that's the reason the boy from Five didn't chase after me right away. But the second cannon … it was probably his. The boy from Twelve. Elijah.

I grip the bow as I run. He'll be coming after me – the boy from Five. I have to think of something. Some way to lose him. But how…?

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

I have to get moving. That was three cannons. Three cannons since the Gamemakers announced that they were inviting us to a feast. Clearly, it's already begun. Three more tributes are dead. How many are left? Four? Five? I've lost track of the cannons. But if I have, then maybe everyone else has, as well. Maybe the other tributes are just as confused as I am.

Slowly, I force myself to my feet. I eat a few more bites of the creature's meat – as much as my stomach will hold. I have a feeling … well, a feeling that it won't need to last long. That soon, this will be over – one way or the other. Either I'll be back in the Capitol, safe and sound and my stomach full of something a lot better than raw meat … or I'll be dead. Either way, soon none of this is going to matter.

I grip my sword tightly and adjust the bandage around my leg one last time. I have a few knives stuffed in my pockets. That'll have to be good enough. I'm armed. I'm well-fed. And there are only a few tributes left. Only a few tributes standing between me and District Two.

I'm ready to go home.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

I just want to go home. That's what it came down to, in the end. I killed that boy because I wanted to go home. Even if there's nothing for me there. Even if there's no one left alive that I care about. Even if there's no one else who would care if I died … _I_ care. I don't want to die. I want to live. I want to go back to District One. I want what the Capitol promised – a life full of peace and plenty, everything I could ever ask for.

That was the appeal of the Games from the start – the promise of luxury. Of plenty. Now … now if all of that were taken away, if all I was promised was a life back on the streets of District One … I would still take it. Because that's better than nothing. My life back in District One wasn't much. But it was something. It was a life.

Was it a mistake to volunteer?

Slowly, I stand up. My legs are shaking. My hands are shaking. I remember watching the reaping – watching the tributes from the other districts shake as their names were called. I didn't understand how they could be so frightened.

Now I do. I'm afraid. Now that I'm so close – now that there are only a few of us left – I can feel it. I can feel what they felt then. The terror. The inevitability of what's coming. In a little while – maybe a matter of a few hours – either I'll be dead, or…

Or I won't. Maybe I can do this. I've killed two tributes. Two older, stronger tributes who would have beaten me in a fair fight. I got lucky. I took them by surprise. But maybe … well, maybe that counts. It's not fair. Not honest or noble or honorable like I've always wanted to be, like my _parents_ always wanted me to be.

But my parents are dead. Anyone I might have to answer to … they're all dead. The only person I have to answer to is me.

And I want to live.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

I want to live. I have to keep reminding myself of that as I follow the footprints the girl left in the sand. I can't just focus on killing her. I have to keep myself alive, too. That's what Elijah would have wanted. That's what _I_ want. I want to stay alive. I want to go home.

Home. Maybe there's not much for me there. A father who's dead. A mother who abandoned us. But it's something. It's better than what Elijah got. Better than what Crescent got. Elijah and I … we told each other that we wanted to go down fighting. And that's what he did. But, now that it's come to it … that's not what I want.

I just want to live.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I just want to live. Right now, nothing else matters. Not the aching in my stomach. Not the soreness in my limbs as I keep running. I just want to get away from the boy who's almost certainly chasing me. I just want to get away from the fighting. The death. The Games.

But there's only one way out of the Games. There can't be that many of us left. I lost track of the cannons a while ago, but what if … what if he's the only one left? What if I'm running away, when I should be running _towards_ a fight? A fight that has to happen if I'm going to make it home.

But, even as the thought occurs to me, I know it's too late. Too late to turn around. Because the path has led me back, anyway. Back to the clearing at the center of the arena. I was so panicked, I didn't even realize that I was going in circles.

Maybe the boy won't, either. Maybe I can surprise him. Maybe. It's the best chance I have. Better than running. It's not as I'm going to find anything else. Not as if I'm going to find—

Food! It takes me a moment to realize that the clearing is full of parachutes. The feast the Capitol promised. I rush towards the nearest one. The boy can't have taken everything. There are so many parachutes – he could never have carried it all. I tear open one of the packages and find a loaf of bread. I eat as much as I can, then rip open another. And another.

I can't help smiling – despite the dead bodies that lie nearby. Sienna. Elijah. And there will be more before the day is over. But for right now, none of that matters. I'm alive.

And I mean to stay that way.

* * *

 **Grant Aquinas  
** **District Twelve Escort**

"Stupid," I mutter, shaking my head before downing another drink. Neblina is still gorging herself on all the food she can find. Icho has almost made his way back to the clearing, where he'll almost certainly find her. Both Gardenia and Maverick are making their way back towards the center of the arena, where they know they're most likely to find other tributes. It won't be long now – not long before the end.

"What's stupid?" Isaac asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Icho. He could have just waited there in the clearing and nabbed her when she came back. She wouldn't have been expecting that."

Isaac shrugs. "He had no way of knowing that she'd come back to the clearing."

"It's obvious they would have to. It's the only place the tributes are sure to be able to find each other. It's where the feast was. Why would they go anywhere else?"

"They're scared. Desperate. Panicked. I don't think they're really thinking clearly, Grant." He smiles a little. "Besides, at least he's still alive. Which is more than can be said for _some_ people's tributes."

I can't help a snort. "I never said Elijah was any brighter. As far as I'm concerned, they're all idiots."

"They're _children_."

"Same thing."

"So you don't think they should have picked children?"

His question catches me off-guard. And if I'm being honest, I'm not sure. Would adults be acting any differently? Would _I_ be acting any differently? Or, after more than three days in the arena – more than three days of hunger and thirst and sleeplessness – would I be just as desperate, just as jumpy, just as irrational as the tributes who are left?

I shake my head. "Maybe not. Maybe they should have picked soldiers – like Gardenia." At least she seems to realize what she's doing. She's acting deliberately, rather than relying on instinct.

Isaac nods a little. "Maybe," he concedes. "And maybe they would have, if they'd only planned on doing this once."

He has a point, of course. Sure, they would have had their pick of soldiers now, right after the rebellion. But ten years from now? Twenty? There won't be any soldiers _left_ in the districts. No teenagers or even young adults in their prime with any sort of substantial training. But there will be plenty of children. There will _always_ be plenty of children.

"It's just … not what I expected," I admit. And it's not. If you'd asked me at the start of the Games who would be the last four tributes alive in the arena, these four … well, they're probably not the ones I would have picked. Maybe Gardenia. Maybe even Icho – he did get a rather high training score, after all. But the other two? I would never have guessed. And now … as strange as it seems, I can't even so much as venture a guess at who might actually win this thing.

It's anybody's game.

* * *

 **Wow. It's hard to believe we're almost there. Next chapter is the finale! We're so excited!**

 **So ... thoughts on the remaining tributes? Who do you think will win? Who are you rooting for? Vote in the poll if you haven't yet, because voting after the next chapter ... well, that would sort of be cheating. :P**

 **Also, yes, we know the plural of cactus is cacti. But the tributes don't. ;)**


	34. Reach

**Reach**

 _All of the power is yours – you need only reach out and take it._

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

It's only a matter of time before he makes his way back to the clearing – the boy who was almost certainly following me. He has to come back here. There are only a few of us left. And he'll certainly be able to follow my tracks, which are more than clear in the wet sand. It's only a matter of time before he finds me.

So I'll have to be ready. But there's little I can do to prepare. Little except hope that someone else shows up. I got lucky with the bow once. But I only have a few arrows left. Two, to be exact. I tried to gather the other ones that I shot. But one of them cracked when it hit the ground – that's not going to be much use. The other buried itself deep in the wall. I suppose I could try to get it out, but I don't really have much time. And the last one…

The last one is still buried in Elijah's chest. Cautiously, I make my way over. I don't know why I'm being careful. He's already dead. I've been around dead bodies before. There's no reason this should be any different.

But, no matter how much I try to pretend otherwise, it _is_ different. When I helped out in the morgue, the bodies were dead, yes. But they weren't dead because of _me_. Someone had killed them, maybe – especially the ones that came in from the battlefield – but it had nothing to do with me. I played no part in their deaths. It was just my job to clean them up again.

Now … this is different. But not different enough to keep me from pulling the arrow out of his chest and cleaning it off on his shirt. It's not as if it was going to hurt him. He's dead. Nothing is ever going to hurt him again. Of course, nothing is going to make him happy again, either. There's just … nothing.

At least, I always assumed there was nothing. Maybe there's something. I have no way of knowing, of course. None of us do. So there's really no point in speculating about it, maybe. But that's never stopped me from speculating about anything before. Why should death be any different?

The answer, of course, is obvious. Death _is_ different. Because death is so … so final. Every other decision, every other choice, every other path – there's the possibility of going back. The way back may be long, or difficult, but it's _possible_. But death … well, there's no coming back from that.

So I'll just have to do my best to make sure I _don't_ die. But even if I don't die today – even if I somehow escape the fighting that's to come – the thought is still there, lingering in the back of my mind. I'm going to die _someday_. We all are – whether it's now, next year, or eighty years from now. Death is the only thing that's certain to be waiting for all of us.

But it's coming for some of us sooner than others. I shake my head as I look away from Elijah's body one last time. Death didn't come for him. _I_ did. But maybe … maybe there's no difference, in the end. Maybe I _am_ death. Maybe we're _all_ death. And if we're all already death, then there's no reason to fear it. Because, in a way, we're all already dead.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

She's as good as dead. She has to know that. I grip my sickle tightly as I enter the clearing. She's waiting for me. Of course she is. Part of me expected her to try to run – like she did last time. But there's nowhere to go. This fight has to happen eventually. So maybe it's better that it happens now.

I take a step into the clearing. She takes a step backwards, her bow drawn. Why hasn't she shot? Then I see it. She only has a few arrows left. She doesn't want to waste them. She'll wait for me to get closer. Close enough that she won't be able to miss.

Because she's not much of an archer. She proved that last time. It took her three shots to even hit Elijah. If I get just a little bit luckier than he did, she'll run out of arrows. And she knows it. That's why she hasn't shot yet. That's why she's waiting. Backing up. Trying to give herself a little more time.

Suddenly, the girl's eyes widen. I turn just in time to see the girl from Two. In time to duck beneath her sword before it can lop off my head. I stagger backwards, startled, lashing out blindly with my sickle as she advances. I back up. Farther. Farther. But I can't keep backing up forever. The farther I back up, the more likely it is that the girl from Eight will hit me with her bow. Or…

Or the more likely it is that she'll hit the other girl. I take a step to the side. Then another. Dodging one blow after another as the girl from Two swings her sword. She's limping a little, though she's trying not to show it. She's injured. If I can get her tired enough, she might make a mistake. She might step too close to the girl from Eight. Has she even seen her? If she doesn't know she's there…

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

He probably thinks I haven't seen her. The girl from Eight, positioned on the other side of the clearing with her bow. I do see her, of course – she would be hard to miss – but as long as I keep _pretending_ I don't see her, I have an advantage. The boy thinks he knows something I don't. And people who think they know more than they do … well, they make mistakes.

In theory, of course. In practice, it's hard to avoid stepping closer to the girl as we fight. He keeps backing up. And I keep attacking. Because that's what I'm expected to do. That's what I'll _have_ to do, if I want to win. I can't think about the fact that he's only fighting me because his life is in danger. The fact that he doesn't deserve to be here any more than I do. I have to push those thoughts from my mind. Because if I let them take over, I might hesitate.

And I can't afford to hesitate. I don't want to be here any more than he does, but I _do_ want to leave. I want to live. And if I want to live, he has to die. Everything else – compassion, pity, the feeling that the two of us aren't so different, when it comes down to it – all of it pales in comparison to that one fundamental truth: I want to live. He has to die. They all have to die.

All. How many of us are left? There are three of us in the clearing. Me, the girl from Eight, and the boy from Five. Is that all? Are we the only ones left? Maybe. It can't be much more than that. There have been so many cannons. There can't be very many more.

And if there are more, so be it. I still have to deal with these two first. They're the immediate threat.

The immediate threat. Strange. I never really thought these two would be left. The girl is … what? Fifteen, at the most. The boy isn't much older. Neither of them is particularly strong. Neither of them seemed dangerous during training. The boy got a rather high training score, if I remember right, but that doesn't really seem to mean much now. And the girl … she never really stood out.

And maybe that's the point. Maybe it isn't really about standing out, or attracting attention. In fact, now that I've been in the arena a while, maybe it's even better _not_ to. Not to attract attention. Not to make a target out of yourself. I was noticeable from the start. Has that been good or bad? On the one hand, it means that people were afraid of me. But on the other…

It made me a target. The way the pair from Seven came after me and Bliss during the bloodbath – it was because they considered us a threat. Well, that and because we were loyalists. But they didn't target _all_ the loyalists. They didn't target Maverick or Vance. Whether intentionally or not, they targeted the ones they thought would be threats during the Games. That meant me. And it certainly didn't mean these two.

Is that what's kept them alive? Maybe. Maybe they've been able to stay in the shadows until now. Maybe they've managed to avoid most of the fighting. Maybe that's why they're still alive. There's a part of me that hopes so – that hopes they haven't made it this far by fighting. Because if they aren't particularly dangerous fighters, then that means I have more of a chance.

A chance. It's beginning to dawn on me. I might survive this. I actually have a chance of making it out alive. I'm one of only a few tributes left in the arena. I might actually win this thing.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I might actually have a chance. It actually feels a bit strange, now that it comes down to it. There are three of us in the clearing. Are there only three of us left? Are we the only ones? If I manage to survive this fight – if I can actually kill these two – does that mean I win?

That's still a big _if_ , of course. Both of them are older than me. Stronger. But they're also fighting each other. If they keep doing that – if they kill each other off, or at least injure each other before the fight is over – then I have more of a chance. I just have to make sure they keep fighting each other.

And that means holding my shot – at least for now. Because if I shoot one of them – and if I manage to kill them – the other one will come after me. Even if I miss, the shot might convince them that I'm a more dangerous target, and they might _both_ come after me. That's something I certainly can't afford.

So, as tempting as it is to try to shoot – to try to bring one of them down from a distance and bring us closer to the end of the Games – I don't. I can't. I don't even know if I would make a shot from this distance. Or _any_ distance. I got lucky when I hit Elijah. I can't count on getting that lucky again.

* * *

 **Gardenia Carys, 18  
** **District Two**

He keeps getting lucky. That's the only explanation for why this kid is still alive. Well, that and my leg. I'm slower than I used to be. It's not just the injury from three days ago. I'm tired. We all are, I suppose. But actually having food – Is that making me fight better because I'm not distracted by an aching stomach? Or is it slowing me down, making me less desperate than my competition?

I swing my sword again, and the boy barely has enough time to dodge. He's been backing up steadily. We're maybe twenty yards away from the girl from Eight. Suddenly, the boy ducks beneath my blade. Rushes to the other side. Trying to give the girl a clean shot at me. Hoping that she'll shoot me before I have a chance to move.

But she doesn't take the shot. Maybe she's afraid. Maybe she doesn't actually know how to use the bow, and only has it for show. Maybe she's waiting to see which of us kills the other so she only has to fight one of us. Whatever the reason, she doesn't take the shot.

* * *

 **Icho Thesik, 16  
** **District Five**

She doesn't take the shot. "Damn it," I mutter under my breath as Gardenia's sword comes down. I manage to dodge the worst of it, but the blade still slices across my shoulder. It's all I can do not to drop my weapon as the blood starts to flow. I grit my teeth as I stand up straight again, swinging my sickle with all my might. But my arm is throbbing. This time, it's the girl from Two who takes a step back – away from the girl from Eight.

I swing again, but the blood keeps dripping. Faster. Pain shoots through my arm with every movement. But I can't afford to stop. If I stop, she wins. I can't keep waiting and defending myself from her attacks. Can't just keep dodging. And I certainly can't stop to bandage my arm and stop the flow of blood. There's only one way this will stop.

Well, two ways. Either I win, or I die. There's nothing in between. Nothing.

I swing again. And again. She dodges one blow. Blocks another. She's playing with me. She knows I'm tiring. She's waiting for me to make a mistake. I can't afford to make a mistake.

Another step. Then another. Away from the girl from Eight. Away from her arrows. As I swing again, the girl's blade meets mine – hard. But instead of pulling away, she holds her blade in place against mine. Pushing. Pushing me back.

Pain. So much pain. My arm gives way, and I duck, lunging at her legs. She wasn't expecting that. She swings, her blade slashing across my back, but, at the same time, my sickle slices across her legs. She tumbles down on top of me, her blade piercing down even as mine swings upward. If I'm going to die, I'm taking her with me.

If I'm going to die. No, it's not _if_ anymore, I know as the blade pierces through my chest. I never wanted to die. But if I'm going to … at least I can make sure that she dies, too. Even if that leaves the Games to Elijah's killer. At least I've accomplished something. At least I've…

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

The cannon sounds. But only one. The girl is still moving. Struggling to get up. Blood is gushing from her legs. She can't stand. I should feel sorry for her. But all I feel is relieved. Relieved that I won't have to fight her. I can just wait. Carefully, I make my way closer. She sees me. But there's nothing she can do. Nothing she can do to stop the arrow that I fire, point-blank, towards her chest – even as her sword comes hurtling towards me.

I duck. She can't – not enough to avoid the arrow. Her body sinks into a heap on top of the boy's. Seconds later, a cannon sounds. Two cannons. Hers and the boy's. I take a step back, studying the bodies. They're dead. Does that mean I've won?

Am I the last one left?

Maybe. I don't know what I was expecting. Something fancier, I guess. Some sort of fanfare or announcement or more cannons or … something. I glance around. "Did I win?" I ask, out loud this time. "Is that it?" Then, louder, "Is there anyone else?"

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

"Is there anyone else?" The voice echoes across the maze as I stop, frustrated, at yet another dead end. I thought it would be easy to get back to the center of the arena. I figured all I would have to do was retrace my steps. I had no idea the maze would turn out to be so much of a … well, a maze.

I thought about climbing – trying to get a better look at things from high up. But my hands are so stiff. My whole body hurts. I can barely hold the knife I'm clutching for dear life. I have another one tucked in my pocket, just in case, and I'm glad I brought it. Because now I know there's at least one more person alive. There's someone else in the arena.

But they haven't won yet, because I'm still here. And maybe … maybe I don't need to find them. Maybe I can lure them to me. Maybe that's better. So I call out. "Here! I'm here!" _Think._ What would get them to come this way?

I could offer food. But if the voice is coming from the center of the arena, chances are they already have food. I could try to coax them into a fight – goad them into coming this way. But that smells of a trap. What would get _me_ to come?

Okay. What drew me back to the clearing with the cactuses – even after the fire died down? I wanted to get back to Vance and Lincoln, but, when I got closer, I heard Vance screaming, and…

"Help!" I cry, trying to make my tone as terrified as I can. It's not hard. I _am_ terrified. Even if my plan works, I'm luring someone into a fight – a fight they'll probably win. I have no way of knowing who's left, but they're almost certainly in better shape than I am.

It wasn't a voice I recognized. From the sound of it, it was a girl, but I have no way of knowing who – or even if she's the only one. If she was asking if there's anyone else in the arena, she's probably alone … but there might be others like me. Others who aren't with her. I could be luring _more_ than one person into a fight.

But it's a chance I'll have to take, because the alternative … well, I suppose the alternative is trying to find _her_. And that's even worse. So I keep screaming. "Help! Please help!" No. No, that's not what I would be screaming if someone was attacking me. That's not what Vance was screaming. That's not what he would have wanted. He wouldn't have wanted help. He would have wanted the pain to stop.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

"Stop! Please! Please, stop! Whatever you want – I'll do whatever – please – just stop!" The voice echoes across the maze as I turn towards the sound. Someone is calling. Someone who thinks they're being clever. Someone who thinks they can lure me in by pretending they're being attacked. It's a clever idea, but it's no coincidence that the voice started screaming as soon as I asked if there was anyone else left. They're trying to lure me in.

But what's the alternative? I could wait for them to come to me, I suppose. But now that it's come down to it – now that we're probably the only two left in the arena – I just want this to be over with. If they're trying to lure me in, so be it. If they're in such a bad position that they have to resort to trickery to win, then this is a fight I _should_ win.

Should. But I'm not kidding myself. I'm no soldier, either. I've gotten lucky. I've been patient. That's really all I have going for me. I sling the bow across my shoulder – if nothing else, it makes me _look_ a bit more intimidating – and make sure the two arrows I still have are in the quiver. Then I stuff a few extra knives in my pocket – just in case – and pick up my dagger from the ground where I left it.

It's time to end this. One way or the other. Me against … well, against whoever's left. From the sound of it, it's a boy. That narrows down the choices. The boys from Five and Twelve are dead. Peter – the boy from Nine – he's dead. That leaves … too many people, really. Too many to narrow it down. But the voice sounded young. One of the boys from One or Three, maybe? Or maybe Six or Eight? I guess I'll just have to find out.

So I follow the voice. Out the western entrance to the clearing. Down the path. I keep going, glancing around. Waiting for someone to jump out and attack me. But the voice still sounds far away.

Suddenly, the voice is gone. Maybe they realized – realized that if they stop shouting, it'll be easier for them to sneak up on me. Or maybe someone else found them. Maybe we _aren't_ actually the last two. Maybe. Or maybe … well, maybe they just got tired of shouting.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

Okay. I can't keep shouting. If they're coming, they're coming. If not, I'll have to think of something else. But right now, I need any sort of advantage I can get. And if they can't find exactly where _I_ am right away, then maybe I can still take them by surprise.

 _Breathe. Just breathe._ Someone could find me at any moment. I'm stuck at a dead end. Unless…

My hands seem to ache at even the _thought_ of climbing the wall. But, finally, I convince myself to give it a try. I can always stop. That's what I tell myself, at least. But I know better. I won't be able to stop. Not when this could be my last chance to gain some sort of an advantage.

I grasp one of the branches, and it's all I can do to keep from crying out as pain courses through my hands. But I hold on. My feet find a place. Gritting my teeth, I let go of my handhold with one hand and reach up. Up. I keep climbing. Up. Finally, I can feel the top of the wall. I swing one leg up. Then another. Breathing hard, I close my eyes for a moment.

But only for a moment. Because I climbed up here to figure out where my opponent was. And now I can see her. Coming down the path. Looking every which way, watching for an attack.

Looking every which way except _up_.

I brace myself as she comes closer. Closer. She's almost right under me. I could throw one of my knives. But, even in perfect condition, I don't know if I'd be able to hit her. I'm in far from perfect condition. And as soon as I throw something in her direction, I give myself away. No, my best weapon isn't one of my knives. It's myself.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I don't see him until he's right on top of me. Literally. Before I know what's going on, a scrawny little boy tumbles down from the wall right on top of me, knife drawn. The knife plunges into my shoulder as the pair of us tumble to the ground. My wrist hits the ground with a terrible crack, and the dagger slips from my hand.

The boy pulls the knife out, but as his hand comes down again, I manage to catch his wrist in my hand. The boy gasps in pain, but still manages to ram his knee into my stomach as he rolls over. Rolls off of me. He's reaching for my dagger with the other hand, but I'm faster. Or maybe I'm just not as injured as he is. His hand is bandaged, and the back of his shirt is bloody. What happened to him?

No. No, I can't afford to worry about that. Can't afford to feel sorry for him. Because, if I'm right – if we're the last two tributes in the arena – then he's the only thing standing between me and home. The only thing standing between me and District Eight. My mother. My sister. Amelia.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

She's probably the only thing standing between me and home. The last tribute who has to die in order for me to live. I don't know who I was expecting, but I wasn't expecting it to be her. Then again, she probably wasn't expecting it to be me, either.

I scramble to my feet as she scoops up her dagger. My knife is still in my hand, but her weapon is longer. But her shoulder is bleeding. Not much, but enough to slow her down a little. Enough to give me a bit of an advantage.

An advantage. Who am I kidding. Neither of us has an advantage. She's a little older. I'm a little less injured – maybe. She has a longer weapon. I have – or, at least, _had_ – the element of surprise, which was enough to get a shot in. Neither of us has a distinct advantage over the other. This is about as fair a fight as I could ask for.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I guess this is probably as fair a fight as I could hope for. The boy's a little younger, but he got a good shot in when he jumped on me. My shoulder is bleeding, and it hurts like hell. But it's my left shoulder. I've still got a good grip on my dagger. And I can't hesitate to use it. Not this time.

No surprises this time. No tricks. There's no one to finish him off for me. No one I can trick into jumping in the way. No silently killing him in his sleep. Nothing clever. It's just a matter of who can last longer – and who makes a mistake first.

I swing my dagger, and he ducks. Steps backwards. He doesn't attack. Maybe he figures he won't need to. Maybe he's trying to do what the girl from Two did to the boy from Five – wear me down until I make a mistake. But I'm not going to make a mistake. I _can't_ make a mistake. Not now. Not now that I'm so close. So close to going home.

He dives for my legs – the same move that the boy from Five tried. I don't fall for it. Instead of swinging – and leaving myself vulnerable – I kick. Aiming not for the knife, but for his hand. The boy gives a shout as the weapon flies from his grasp. Only then do I swing.

But he's already scrambled out of the way. Already scooted off to the side, out of reach. He's quick – I'll give him that. And slippery. But that won't keep him safe forever. Eventually, he'll have to fight.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

Eventually, I'll have to fight. I know that. But fight with _what_? My weapon is gone. I brought two knives – or, at least, I was sure I had – but the other one must have fallen out of my pocket while I was climbing. She kicked the other one away, and the moment I run to get it – the moment I put even a little distance between us – she'll be able to use her bow.

Her bow. Without thinking, I rush at her and lunge. She thinks I'm going for her legs again, but, at the last second, I lunge to the side, grabbing the end of her bow. Pulling her down with me. She topples over on top of me, landing with a terrible crash. My whole body aches, but, fortunately for me, she doesn't weigh much – probably not any more than I do. She's just as thin, just as hungry. Just as desperate.

I grit my teeth as I wrap my arms around her waist from my position beneath her. We're more alike than different – the two of us. I don't want to do this. I never wanted to—

But I want to go home. I want that more than anything. And, right now, that's strong enough. I hold on, my arms wrapped around her waist. I hold on as her dagger slices across my arm as she tries to free herself from my grasp. I let go with one hand, but, as I do, I slip my hand into her pocket, hoping.

* * *

 **Neblina Acosta, 15  
** **District Eight**

I don't realize his hand is in my pocket until it's too late. He has one of my knives. Plunges it into my side. I gasp as he pulls it out, turning on him as quickly as I can, swinging my dagger. It grazes his chest, but he's already stepping back. Back. All he has to do is wait.

My hands find the dagger in my side. The wound is already bleeding. My whole body feels like it's on fire. Pain shoots out from my stomach. I grit my teeth as I struggle to stand. Maybe I can take him with me. What will they do if we both die? If no one wins their stupid Games? Yes, that's really the only thing I can hope for now. I can't win. But maybe death can.

So I lunge at him. He wasn't expecting that. What was he expecting me to do? Just roll over and die? Blood is gushing from the wound in my stomach – my sudden motion jolted the knife free, and now the blood is flowing. But my arms are around his legs. My dagger is still in my hand. It comes down, but he wriggles out of the way – almost. Instead of finding his chest, my dagger buries itself in his thigh.

But, even as it does, his other foot kicks me in the face. Again. And again. Dragging himself away from me, he pulls the dagger from his leg. Blood. So much blood. His and mine. Is he going to die, too? Everything is starting to get dark. I can barely see him as he scoots himself a little closer to me. As the dagger comes plunging down towards my chest, I can't help wondering whether he'll be joining me soon enough.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **District One**

The cannon sounds. I can only hope it's the last one. Because I won't survive another fight. I don't even know if I'll survive the next few minutes, unless—

"Ladies and gentlemen!" It's Noelle's voice again, echoing through the arena. "I'm pleased to present the Victor of the very first Hunger Games – Maverick Sterling of District One!"

The Victor. Me. She means me. I'm the Victor. I won. I'm alive. I'm going to live. I'm going to…

Then I see the hovercraft – coming down out of the sky. I try to stand, but my legs won't work right. I'm too weak – too weak even to stand as the hovercraft lands next to me. Two men step out, dressed in dark grey uniforms. Capitol uniforms. Like soldiers. Almost like my parents.

No. Not my parents. My parents are dead. But I'm alive. I'm going to live. I'm going home.

I'm going home.

* * *

 **Noelle Hale  
** **Hunger Games Host**

He won. He actually did it. There was a part of me that was rooting for him all along, I suppose. The Capitol loyalist. The underdog. It's a good ending to the Games – as good as we could ask for.

Honestly, any of them would have made a fine Victor. Maverick, the loyalist underdog. Gardenia, the Capitol soldier. Neblina, the cold, silent killer. Or Icho, who just couldn't seem to die. Until he did. They all did. All except Maverick.

My mother smiles a little. "I'd say that turned out well. They gave us a good show."

I nod a little. Maybe that's all it is to her – a show. That's her job, I suppose. To put on a show. Sending the panther mutt to steer Maverick and Lincoln towards Clarisse and Elijah. Using it to herd Gardenia towards Aubrey and Colt. Discreetly eliminating anyone who might have been a threat to the Capitol as a Victor. Aubrey, who was a rebel soldier. Clarisse, who volunteered to … what? Avenge her rebel father? Prove herself? Maybe we'll never know.

"What'll happen to him?" I ask. Now that the cameras are off, we can talk a bit more freely. And, if I'm being honest, I'm a bit worried for the kid. He was hurt pretty badly…

"Oh, he'll be well cared for," she assures me. "He'll have the best care in the Capitol, and then … well, then he'll be sent back home."

"He doesn't have a home," I point out. "He was an orphan."

That seems to catch her off guard. With all the effort we put into making the Hunger Games a good show, no one really seems to have considered what would happen to the tributes – to the _Victors_ – afterwards.

It's father who steps in with a solution. "So we'll build one – in each of the districts. A special place for the Victors to live. A separate community of sorts."

"A village," mother agrees. "A Victors' Village."

It sounds good. But it's also a reminder that this isn't over. There will be more Victors to come. More Games. The First Hunger Games has come to a close. But what have we started? And how long will it last?

* * *

 **And that's a wrap! There will be one or two more chapters of post-Games festivities, but the Games are over.**

 **This Games, at least. Keep your eyes open - we're planning to do another one and should have that ready to post once this one is finished.**

 **In the meantime, what did you think? Maverick wasn't leading the poll, but there also didn't seem to be a clear leader, and the votes ended up pretty evenly spread between the final five. We considered a lot of different Victors over the course of planning the story, but, in the end, Maverick won out because of the story it allowed us to tell. The sort of rags-to-riches story that would convince the Capitol audience that, yes, these Games are a good idea. The sort of story that would keep them coming back for years, wanting to see more.** **That, and the kid is a load of fun to write.**

 **Congrats to Maverick and his submitter, and thank you to everyone who submitted. Hope to see you next time around.**


	35. In the World

**In the World**

" _Death is so boring, especially now with so much excitement in the world."_

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **Victor of the First Hunger Games**

I'm still alive. I won. I survived. I'm out of the arena. I'm going to live.

The thoughts are still a bit of a jumble as I open my eyes. The walls are a very soothing shade of light bluish-purple. I'm lying in a bed. The softest bed I've ever felt.

It's almost funny. During training, I went down to the training center and built myself a shelter because sleeping in a bed _this_ comfortable was just too strange. Too foreign. It just felt wrong.

But now … now it couldn't feel more right. It's as if I finally belong here. As if I deserve it. I earned it. I survived when no one else did. I won the Games.

I killed three people. Twenty more died so that I could be here. But right now, none of that matters. All that matters is that I'm still alive.

Everything else is still a bit fuzzy. Probably has something to do with the drugs. There's an IV line running into my left hand. My right one is still bandaged. But it doesn't hurt. For the first time in a long time, nothing hurts.

"How are you feeling?" I nearly leap out of bed, startled by the voice. As it is, I sit up, my arms raised defensively in front of me. But even moving that much makes me dizzy, and I sink back onto the pillows as Gloria rushes to my side. "Easy. Easy there, Maverick. I didn't mean to startle you."

Of course she didn't. I guess I'm still a bit jumpy. "Not your fault," I assure her. "Not just – just not used to…"

Just not used to what? Seeing someone who isn't trying to kill me? I take a few deep breaths, collecting my wits. "Good to see you."

And it is. I never realized how good it would feel to see another person. Since Vance and Lincoln died, everyone's been trying to kill me. But now … now all of that is over. I'm safe. I'm alive. And I'm going to stay that way.

"Good to see you, too," Gloria beams. "I knew you had it in you all along."

No, she didn't. But there's no point in arguing. If she wants to pretend she thought I was going to win all along, who's that really hurting? Certainly not me. "Thanks," I manage. "I didn't."

Gloria giggles a little. But I didn't mean it as a joke. I _wanted_ to win, of course. And at some points I believed I had a chance. But I never _knew_ I was going to win. Never had that much confidence in my abilities.

And, in the end, I didn't win because of my abilities. I won because I knew how to survive. Because I trusted my instincts. And because I got lucky. Because other people made mistakes. If it were all up to skill, I don't know who would have won, but it probably wouldn't have been me.

But that doesn't matter. Because I _did_ win. "Would you like something to eat?" Gloria asks.

She says it so casually. As if I didn't just spent four days trying not to starve. Surviving on cactus skins and rainwater. I almost forgot what it was like to not have to _search_ for food. To just have it there when you need it. I got used to scrounging during the war, and it didn't take me long to fall back into that pattern during the Games. But now…

Now, I'll never have to worry about starving. I nod, and Gloria leaves – and returns in a few minutes with a plate piled high with all the food I could ask for. Bread and meat and cheese and soup and all kinds of desserts. It's all I can do not to stuff everything I can into my mouth at once. "Thank you," I finally manage between bites.

I eat all I can. Finally, I have to stop, though. My stomach won't hold another bite, and I'm starting to get tired again. It's weird – being able to think about sleeping without having to worry that someone's going to find me and kill me. As I close my eyes, I can already feel myself drifting off to sleep.

* * *

 **Gloria Vincent  
** **District One Escort**

Maverick sleeps for most of the next few days, only waking up to eat and drink his fill. The doctors say that's fine – that he needs his rest. He's certainly earned it. Four days in the arena. The beating he took from Silver. Getting stabbed through the hand. Neblina stabbing him in the leg at the last moment. Four days of running and hiding and watching his back and seeing other tributes die right in front of him. Four days of fear and hunger and thirst. He deserves to rest as long as he wants to.

But he can't rest forever. The audience is being as patient as can be expected, but they want to see him – and not just lying in a hospital bed. They were promised a Victor, not a patient. So after a few days, I manage to coax Maverick out of bed long enough to record a few minutes of video. It's only then that he finally gets the chance to look in a mirror.

He takes a step back, a little unsteadily on his injured leg. He runs his fingers along the side of his face, where his scars used to be. They're gone. He looks … well, he looks like a little boy again, rather than some sort of scarred, frightened animal. His hearing has been completely restored, his scars carefully removed. There are tears in his eyes as he slowly removes the bandage from his hand. Thanks to the Capitol's medicine, it's almost fully healed. There's barely a scratch left. His leg will take a bit longer to heal, but that, too, will come quickly. He smiles up at me for a moment, but then can't contain himself anymore. He throws his arms around me, burying his face in my chest. "Thank you."

I didn't do anything, of course. But I hold him close, anyway, smiling and running my hand through his hair. His thanks was meant for the entire Capitol. He may have been through a few days of hell, but now he has a new life ahead of him. He's young. He'll recover quickly. And he'll be able to enjoy the rest of his life in peace and comfort.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **Victor of the First Hunger Games**

It's a few more days before I actually feel ready for an interview, but, fortunately, the Capitol is willing to wait. My stylists pick out a snappy red and black suit that makes me look older than I actually am. I _feel_ older than I actually am. But it doesn't matter right now whether I feel thirteen or thirty. The important thing is that I'm alive. That I _feel_ more alive now than ever before.

Gloria gives me a warm hug before I head onstage for my interview. "Keep it short and sweet," she suggests. I nod. That's the same advice Lincoln gave me before my first interview. Keep my sentences short. Let Noelle do most of the talking. Then, I was one of twenty-four tributes, and she still managed to make me look … well, if not _great_ then at least reasonably good. Now I'm the only one. I can let her do most of the work.

Which is good, because as soon as I step onstage, the crowd starts cheering. Roaring. Thunderous applause fills the room … and it's all for me. They're cheering for _me_. The orphan boy from District One who somehow managed to survive the Games. I can't speak. I can barely breathe. I stop after a few steps onto the stage and just stare.

Noelle comes over, a smile on her face, and takes my hand. She leads me to my seat. It takes a moment for me to even realize that I should sit down, but the crowd doesn't seem to care. They're happy to applaud as long as Noelle lets them. Finally, I sit down, still trying to catch my breath. Noelle waits patiently for the noise to die down a little before she raises her hands for quiet.

The crowd finally settles down a little. Noelle smiles at me. "It's certainly good to see you again, Maverick."

Silence. She's waiting for me to say something. Anything. What's the right thing to say? "You, too."

Apparently, that was good enough, because the crowd cheers again. "You certainly had a rough four days in the arena. How does it feel to be back?"

Four days. Is that all it was? It seems like longer. Like a lifetime. But this is a question I know the answer to. "Amazing. It feels almost…" What's the word?

"Unbelievable?" Noelle offers, and I nod. That's the word for it. It doesn't quite feel real yet. But the moments when it _does_ feel real, it feels wonderful. "You certainly beat the odds in there," Noelle continues. "What kept you going?"

What _did_ keep me going? I want to say that it was my parents – wanting to make them proud. Wanting to live up to how they lived. How they died. But the truth is … well, it's much simpler than that. Much less abstract, and much more human. "Didn't want … didn't want to die."

Noelle nods. "And you've survived some tough situations before – isn't that right?" I nod, and a screen suddenly lights up, showing a video of my last interview.

" _An alleyway – mine. A mine. Exploded,"_ I hear myself stammer.

" _And tell me, Maverick, what were you doing in that alley on your own? What happened to your family?"_

" _Dead. All dead. Fighting for the Capitol. My mother – father – Capitol military. Died when … died fighting the rebels."_

The lights come up again, and Noelle turns back to me. "What do you think your mother and father would say – if they could see you sitting here?"

I freeze. I don't know. What _would_ they say? Would they be glad I survived? Would they be proud? Or would they scold me for not following the rules, for winning with tricks and luck rather than with strength and honor? I honestly don't know. "Don't … I don't know," I admit.

Noelle nods a little, as if that was the answer she was expecting. "Well … why don't we ask some people who knew them?"

A light illuminates the other side of the stage, where an older man steps out from behind a curtain, wearing a colonel's uniform. Another man follows – this one younger, and missing an arm. A woman comes after them, and then another man. Soldier after soldier, they make their way across the stage. The first one salutes, and, when I return the salute, he shakes my hand firmly. "Your parents would be proud, son."

He steps behind me and places his hands on my shoulders as the next soldier approaches. Salutes. Shakes my hand. One after another, they congratulate me. Some offer words of praise, some words of condolence. Some don't say anything. They don't need to. And neither do I. I don't think I could if I tried.

Finally, the line ends. The others leave the stage. But the colonel remains standing beside me, his arm around my shoulder. Noelle smiles warmly. "Maverick, this is Colonel Arthur Shields. He served with your parents."

"They were both very brave," the colonel says kindly, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "And they would be proud of the brave young soldier you've become. If you're willing, I'd … I'd like to offer to let you stay with me – until the Capitol finishes building the Victors' Village they have planned."

I don't know what to say. I throw my arms around the colonel, tears brimming in my eyes. He holds me close – just like my parents used to. They're gone. But their memory isn't. Every one of those soldiers will remember them forever. And the Capitol … they'll remember me.

And I will remember every moment. I won't forget a single one of their faces. The soldiers who were here to greet me. The other tributes. Vance. Lincoln. They'll never be forgotten – as long as I'm alive.

* * *

 **Esther Tyde, 58  
** **Former Maid to the Family of Memphis Ash (Placed 24th)**

There isn't much left of Memphis' body, and no one else came to collect what little remains. There's a whole crows to escort Bliss' remains to the graveyard at the edge of the district. A few pieces of Memphis' body were collected from the sand after the initial fight in the clearing, and were burned in the Capitol. I'm the only one who comes to collect the jar.

Because I remember what it was like – before the war. I was his family's maid when he was a little boy. The war changed him. The war changed us all. But I'll scatter the ashes on the foam of the ocean, in memory of the little boy he used to be.

* * *

 **Drake Loverly, 24  
** **Brother of Bliss Loverly (Placed 23rd)**

There's a whole crowd here to gather Bliss' body, but that doesn't make it any better. It's just one more reminder that she isn't coming home.

Why? She was as loyal to her district – and to the Capitol – as the little boy who won. Surely she was more capable than him. But he's alive, while she's lying dead in a body bag that we remove carefully from the train. It's not fair. None of it is fair. She never had a chance.

* * *

 **Brenton Willow, 28  
** **Admirer of Simon Galley (Placed 22nd)**

There are only a few of us brave enough to collect the bodies from the train. It arrives in silence in the middle of the night to deposit the bodies of Simon and Silver. We take the bodies to the cemetery and bury them alongside their families and friends. It seems like such a waste.

* * *

 **Aster DeBrier, 12  
** **Sister of Felicity DeBrier (Placed 21st)**

It's all I can do to keep from crying when I see the body. But I have to be strong. I'm the oldest now. I have to set an example for the others. Just like Felicity did.

So I hide my tears as our parents collect her body. I wrap my arms around my younger siblings as we carry her away. At least she died quickly. She didn't suffer. She never had to feel the hunger or the desperation that the other tributes felt in the arena. That should be comforting. But, instead, it's only a reminder of how quickly she died. How she was doomed from the start. How she never had a chance.

* * *

 **Turbo Garcia, 38  
** **Father of Horario Garcia (Placed 20th)**

He might have had a chance, if he hadn't tried to climb that stupid wall. I can't help thinking that – can't help replaying that moment over and over again in my head. Hermia and I were shouting at the screen. Begging him not to climb.

But, at the same time, I know I would probably have done the same thing. I would have tried to escape. I wouldn't have wanted to fight. _He_ didn't want to fight. Did he get that from me?

Hermia and I carry his body quietly away. We didn't let my mother come. Didn't want her to see her only grandson like this. She deserved better. _He_ deserved better. We all deserved better than this.

* * *

 **Emery Forge, 20  
** **Friend of Aldous Clement (Placed 19th)**

He knew he was going to die. The moment his name was called, he knew. But at least … well, at least he died saving a life. That's what he would have wanted. Aldous wasn't a killer. He was a healer. And he died saving a friend. That's all he would have asked for.

I carry the body away alone. Bury it privately. He wouldn't have wanted a lot of fuss. All he would have wanted was for me to remember him. To live the rest of my life in peace and safety, far away from the war that brought us together. So that's what I'll do.

* * *

 **Bella Nerine, 18  
** **Sister of Crescent Nerine (Placed 18th)**

 _Now any family seems like it might be better than nothing._ That's the last thing she said about us, before she drowned in that swamp. Maybe it's not much, but maybe it means that she forgave us, before the end. I didn't have any part, really, in the fact that we adopted her. I was barely a year old at the time. But I helped keep the secret. That makes me partly responsible.

For what? For loving her? Taking her into our family? I could never understand why that upset her so much, but I'm glad that she forgave us – or at least seemed to – before the end. I'd rather have my sister back. But knowing that she didn't hate me, in the end … well, I suppose it's better than nothing.

* * *

 **Zach Richardson, 17  
** **Brother of Clarisse Richardson (Placed 17th)**

Most of them are here to see Maverick. The Victor. The boy who won the Games. They've forgotten all about Clarisse. The girl from District One. The girl who won't get to come home.

My sister.

And the worst part of it is, she's dead – at least partly – because of him. It was his ally, Lincoln, who stabbed her in the first place. Sure, Neblina was the one who killed her – but only after it was clear she was going to die, anyway. The real blame is on the two boys.

But that's not the worst of it. The worst part is, with Maverick's victory, everything she volunteered for – to defy the Capitol, to show them that she wasn't afraid – has gone to waste. People _aren't_ going to fear the Capitol. The hundreds of people who have lined the streets to see Maverick return aren't afraid. They're _grateful_. Grateful to the Capitol for taking two children and forcing them to fight. Grateful to the Capitol for putting them through hell.

And that's even worse than fear.

* * *

 **Arya Ellison, 38  
** **Mother of Carina Ellison (Placed 16th)**

She was willing to play the Game, in the end – I suppose I should be grateful for that. When Carina was chosen, I was worried that she might do something stupid, like her sister did when she attacked that Peacekeeper. But she didn't. She played along. She fought. She was willing to kill.

But she didn't get the chance. She was outmatched. Outfought. And, as much as I might try to blame the pair from Ten for that, I can't. Because they were just playing along, too. Doing as they were told. How can we fault children for that, when it's what we've taught them all their lives? To obey, to listen, to do as they're instructed.

So we do what _we're_ supposed to. We bring her body home. We bury her. And we try to move on. But the truth is that all of us know nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

 **Jefferson Tantalum, 33  
** **Father of Lincoln Tantalum (Placed 15th)**

Nothing will ever be the same. Lincoln is gone. Dead. Miranda is crying, and Madison is huddled in her arms as I retrieve his body from the train. He's dead. And the worst part is, he's dead because of what we taught him. We taught him to be loyal. To value those he was close to. He could have run from that clearing, like Maverick didn't. But he stayed. He stayed because he was _that_ loyal to a boy he'd just met.

It's not fair. I don't blame Maverick for running, I suppose. In fact, I wish Lincoln had done the same thing. But he didn't. I'm just grateful that Vance saved him from the worst of Silver's fury. He's dead, but he didn't suffer – not like Vance did. Maybe it's not much comfort, but it's better than nothing.

* * *

 **Tatania Litvina, 35  
** **Mother of Tullia Litvina (Placed 14th)**

We bury her quietly – in a private family ceremony. Just the two of us – Sergei and me. It's what she would have wanted. She never liked it when we fussed over her. She preferred to stay unnoticed.

For a while, I thought that maybe … maybe that would save her. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to simply stay out of the way. And it wasn't enough to simply _want_ to come home. When it came down to a fight, she wasn't strong enough. I can't help thinking that maybe … maybe that's our fault. We never thought she would have to fight. If we'd trained her to fight during the war…

She would still have been twelve years old. She would still have been small, and hungry, and desperate. But so was Maverick. So why is he alive, when our daughter is dead? What did we do wrong?

* * *

 **Celia Eldamar, 35  
** **Mother of Peter Eldamar (Placed 13th)**

There isn't much left of his body. Just some ashes they collected after the fire. I don't even know if they're his – if they bothered separating his ashes from the ashes of the walls and the branches around him. There wasn't really anything left at all after the fire burned through.

It doesn't make much of a difference, I suppose. Either way, he's dead. He won't be coming home. Lucas and I take the ashes home and place them in a jar. But keeping that with us … it's not the same. It will never be the same. _We_ will never be the same.

* * *

 **Inyx Paean, 47  
** **Mother of Sylvana Paean (Placed 12th)**

I can't help thinking that maybe this is what she would have wanted – to be ashes. She always did love smoking. Fire. Maybe it's fitting, in a way, that her body was burned to ashes. Certainly it's better than seeing the wound the boy from Twelve left in her stomach. I never want to see that again.

I saw my fair share of injuries during the war, of course. All sorts came through the hospital. But it's different when … when it's someone you know. Someone you love. And when there's nothing you can do to help them.

* * *

 **Ander Feldspar, 43  
** **Father of Vance Feldspar (Placed 11th)**

I wish I could have taken his place. Vance's body has been cleaned and dressed in new clothes – I suppose I have Maverick to thank for that – but even that can't hide the injuries. The holes in his hands. The flesh that was torn from his body. The agony that's permanently etched in his face, even in death.

The whole district has come together to bury the two of them – him and Gardenia. Two fallen soldiers. Their bodies are carried through the streets, and they're buried in the military graveyard along with the soldiers who died during the war. I suppose that's what Vance would have wanted. But if he hadn't been so loyal…

It wouldn't have mattered. If he hadn't been the one to kill the boy from Seven, the girl would have found another reason to hate him. Another reason to kill him. It didn't really have anything to do with what he'd done. She just needed an excuse to hate him. And now she's given me a reason to hate her.

But hating her … well, it seems rather pointless now. She's dead. Her family is dead. Her friends are dead. Soon enough, she'll be forgotten. But Vance – the district will remember his courage forever. And I guess that'll have to be enough.

* * *

 **Rowan Ember, 16  
** **Friend of Silver Grayne (Placed 10th)**

 _She won't be forgotten,_ I swear silently as the men carry Silver and Simon's bodies from the train. Silver did some terrible things in the arena. But that wasn't her. She became a monster because monstrous things were done to her. To her family.

So we bury them with their family and friends, and I vow to remember the girl she used to be. The girl who rushed to the stage during the reaping because she thought it would save her family. She was wrong, but that doesn't make her sacrifice any less brave. She did what she thought was right.

But what she did in the arena … I want to forget that. What she did to that boy – it was wrong. He wasn't responsible for what happened to her family. He was a victim – as much as she was. But she was too blinded by her grief to understand that.

It's hard to say what I would have done. If my family had been killed by the Capitol – slowly, painfully, publicly – would I have reacted any differently? Would I have had any less hate brewing inside of me? Or would I have lashed out – just like she did? I honestly don't know.

* * *

 **Nettle Hawkins, 21  
** **Sister of Colt Hawkins (Placed 9th)**

I don't know what I would have done in his place. Our family helps retrieve both bodies, along with Aubrey's friend Hannah. Aubrey doesn't have any family left, so we bury them together. I think it's what they would have wanted. They survived together. They died together. And now their bodies will lie together forever.

It was brave – what he did, in the end. Staying in that clearing even though he knew he was no match for the girl from Two. I'm proud of him, but … well, there's still a part of me that wishes he had run. That he had saved himself, rather than staying to protect someone who was going to die, anyway.

But he didn't. And we all have to live with that. He was brave, and it got him killed. Not really something I thought I would ever be saying about my little brother. I'm … I'm proud of him.

* * *

 **Hannah Malacek, 17  
** **Friend of Aubrey Ryans (Placed 8th)**

We bury them together, but I can't help wondering what would have happened if they _hadn't_ died together. What if Colt had run off when Aubrey had told him to? Would he still be alive?

Maybe. But his family can't really blame her for that. She _told_ him to run. He's the one who didn't listen. He stayed. He stayed to try to protect her.

And I … I guess I'm glad he did. Glad that she didn't die alone. She was going to die – that much was certain the moment that tree fell on her in the storm. Maybe even before that. Maybe the Capitol had it in for her all along – because she was a rebel. It can't be a coincidence that their Victor was a loyalist son of two Capitol soldiers. Maybe the Games were rigged from the start.

I don't know if that makes it better or worse – the idea that she might never have had a chance in the first place. That the Capitol made sure that she died. I just know that it's not fair. None of this is fair.

* * *

 **Kervin Ford, 42  
** **Father of Kennedy Ford (Placed 7th)**

None of this is fair. The boy who killed my son is alive. And he didn't even kill him in a fair fight. He snuck up and stabbed him from behind. At least when Kennedy killed the girl from Twelve, she had a chance. It was _her_ choice to try to steal from him. Kennedy never had the chance to decide whether to fight Maverick. He never had a chance to fight.

He would have _won_ a fight. I'm sure of that. He'd already killed one tribute, already proven that he wasn't going to be squeamish about killing – even if it was a younger tribute. There's a part of me that's sickened by that, but he was only doing what he had to do to survive. I know, deep down, that I would have done the same thing. He just wanted to win. He just wanted to live.

But he's dead. We carry his body away in silence, sharing sympathetic looks with Neblina's family. He killed them both, but at least she lost a fair fight. Lost to an injured thirteen-year-old boy. Come to think of it, I don't know if that would be better or worse.

* * *

 **Kauri Poplar, 12  
** **Sister of Sienna Poplar (Placed 6th)**

She was trying to save her friend. Trying to convince all of them not to fight. That's what we were afraid of – Asher and Holli and me. We were afraid that when it came down to it, she wouldn't fight. Wouldn't kill.

And she didn't. She fought, but only to protect her friend. And she didn't kill. I suppose I should be proud of that, at least. She didn't give the Capitol what they wanted. She didn't let them turn her into a monster. A killer.

But part of me … well, part of me wishes she had. Wishes she'd been willing to play along – just a little while. Willing to kill. Willing to do whatever it took to make it home to us. Because I can't help thinking that, if she had … she could have won.

* * *

 **Ilene Maleri, 16  
** **Sister of Elijah Maleri (Placed 5th)**

He should have won. Could have won, if not for that girl from Eight and her stupid bow. It's not fair. He would have easily beaten her in a fight. He _did_ beat her ally – the girl from Nine. There's no reason he couldn't have killed Neblina, as well.

It's not fair. But death never is. It wasn't fair when our parents were slaughtered by Peacekeepers. It wasn't fair when he and Tullia were called during the reaping. And it isn't fair that we're collecting their bodies now.

But that's what has to happen. So we bring his body home. Bury him beside mother and father. It's where he would have wanted to be. At least, I hope it is. Because we don't really have another choice. So few of us ever have any choice…

* * *

 **Rana Thesik, 41  
** **Mother of Icho Thesik (Placed 4th)**

He didn't have any choice but to fight. I don't know what I was expecting. Did I really think Icho was going to be able to fight a fully-trained soldier and live? The fact that he managed to wound her enough for the girl from Eight to finish her off was impressive, I suppose. But that doesn't really make it any better.

I just wish I'd been able to speak with him one last time. Ever since the war, he avoided me. Brushed me off. Scorned every offer I made to take care of him or even help him out a little. If he'd lived…

I don't know. I honestly don't know what he would have done. What _I_ would have done. But it doesn't matter. Because we'll never get to find out.

I bury him next to his father. It's what he would have wanted. He was always his father's son. I just wish… I don't know. I don't even know what I would wish for anymore. I don't know what I'm going to do.

* * *

 **Mason Carys, 44  
** **Father of Gardenia Carys (Placed 3rd)**

I don't know what I'm going to do. Gardenia … she was my world. Ever since her mother left, she's all I had. And now … now even that is gone.

The district has a huge ceremony. Gives her a proper military burial, along with Vance. And that's … well, it's nice, I suppose. But it's a little bit unnerving, if I'm being honest. Because it makes it seem like … like she died fighting for something. For the district. For honor and glory and everything that I know she believed in.

But all of that … it has nothing to do with why she died. Not really. She died because she was fighting for her life – in an arena the Capitol put her in, even after she had been willing to fight for them during the rebellion. They want to pretend that her death is something noble and honorable, that she died fighting for us. But, in the end, she died for nothing. They _all_ died for nothing.

* * *

 **Tara Acosta, 19  
** **Sister of Neblina Acosta (Placed 2nd)**

There's nothing we can do. Nothing except bring her body home and care for it the way she cared for so many bodies during the war. We clean her body. Wash away the blood and the sweat and the sand. We dress her in a beautiful blue-grey dress, and then we lay her to rest.

There's nothing else to do. Nothing except try to move on. But I can't. I can't help wondering, if things had gone a little differently, could she have lived? If she hadn't followed Maverick's voice from the clearing, if she had waited for him to come to her, would the fight have been different? If he hadn't had the element of surprise at the start. If she had been able to use her bow…

It's no use, of course – dwelling on what might have been. What could have happened, if she'd made a different choice. I know it's pointless, but I can't help wondering, anyway.

She wouldn't want me to. Wouldn't want me to waste time wishing for what can never be. But I wish … I wish it had been me. I was too old, of course. My name wasn't in the reaping bowl. I couldn't have volunteered in her place. But if I could have…

No. I still wouldn't have. I've never been much of a sister to her. And now … now it's too late.

* * *

 **Colonel Arthur Shields, 61  
** **Caretaker of Maverick Sterling (Victor)**

It's too late to give him the family he truly deserves. I can't bring his parents back. I can't put his life back the way it used to be. But what I _can_ do, I will.

So Maverick moves in with me. It takes some getting used to, at first. I never had children. Never wanted children. My job – my duty – it was always my life. I always thought that anything else – any other connection – would get in the way.

But he doesn't get in the way. In fact, he's very good at staying _out_ of the way. I have to keep reminding him that he _lives_ here now. He doesn't have to worry about being too loud or interrupting or asking for something. He's not used to being doted on. He's not used to being the center of attention.

But that's what the district's made him. The center of attention. The hero. They're building a house for him in Victor's Village, and he's already asked me to come live there with him once it's done. I said yes, of course – not because of the luxury, but because I don't want him to be alone. He's been on his own for far too long. I intend to see that he never has to fend for himself again.

* * *

 **Maverick Sterling, 13  
** **Victor of the First Hunger Games**

It's taken some getting used to, I'll admit. It's been three months since the Games. Two weeks since they finished building the house. _My_ house. It's all mine, technically, but, after living with Colonel Shields for more than two months, the thought of being alone again was too much to bear.

He's been helping me. Teaching me. I stopped going to school during the war, so he's helping me catch up. Giving me private lessons. Helping me get used to … well, living like a human being again, instead of living on the streets like an animal.

There are still times when the memories are too much. When I wake up with nightmares. About the arena. The fire. Vance. That last fight with Neblina. But they're no worse than the nightmares about the war. No worse than the nightmares about my parents, about the mine that almost killed me. And they're just dreams.

My father used to tell me that dreams can only hurt you if you let them. So I don't let them. I'm not _going_ to let them. I have my whole life ahead of me. And I'm going to _live_.

* * *

 **And, with that ... it's done. The Games are done. This story is done. (Our writing, however, is not done - the first chapter of our next story will be posted shortly. Probably tomorrow.)**

 **There is one final thing, however, that we feel we should address. As several of you have pointed out, we broke canon (which, for the record, is spelled with one 'n' unless you're talking about the thing that goes _boom_ when a tribute dies) when we crowned Maverick the Victor. We were aware of that when we chose him, but we didn't feel that one detail mentioned in a few lines in the book should disqualify an otherwise worthy Victor.**

 **We did consider giving him a birthday in the arena so that he would technically be _tied_ with Finnick, not younger, but we felt that would tip our hand and make it obvious that we'd chosen him as the Victor. Another option was retconning a bit afterwards so it turned out he'd forgotten or lost track of when his birthday was - plausible, given how long he was one his own - making him 14 all along. In the end, we decided against both of those options for one reason:**

 **When any of us submit a tribute to an SYOT, there's an unspoken understanding that each tribute has a _chance_ of winning. Not a large chance, but a chance, nonetheless. Even younger ones. Even disabled ones. Even a crippled former medic who's missing an arm. To automatically disqualify anyone under 14 from winning because it doesn't quite mesh win canon, in our opinion, violates that understanding.**

 **As soon as it's clear that no 12 or 13 year olds will ever win, people stop submitting them. We don't want that. We want your 12 and 13 year old tributes. We want your deaf and blind and crippled tributes. We want your 18-year-old rebel soldiers and your twelve-year-old science nerds. And we want you to know that they _might_ win. Maybe.**

 **And if it takes breaking canon to do that, then that's what we'll do - and gladly.**

 **May the odds be ever in your favor.**


End file.
